ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Soledad Acosta de Samper has always belonged in the Cita Press catalog. Our founder, Juliana Castro Varón, is from Colombia, where Samper's legacy has continued to expand opportunities for women even in the period in which recognition for her was unjustly scarce. We are finally able to formally welcome her to our library, thanks to Sara Abadía Alvarado, who brought this project to us. We are thrilled to be part of sharing an essential feminist legacy with readers around the world, in English and in Spanish.

This book would not exist without the scholarship of Carolina Alzate and Monserrat Ordóñez, whose work has brought Soledad back into the light. We are also indebted to La Biblioteca Virtual del Banco de la República for making the source text for this translation available to all, and to the Biblioteca Digital Soledad Acosta de Samper maintained by the Universidad de los Andes and Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia.

Thank you to Sara for trusting Cita with this project, and for her thoughtful attention as a translator and writer. Thank you to Mariana Sanín Angel for creating a cover that is in direct conversation with the text, and with Colombia’s natural landscape and design history. 

The art direction and editorial design for this book is by Mariana Matos, guided by the design vision of Juliana Castro Varón. Jessi Haley edited the English translation. Jasmine Jones provided editorial and promotional support. 

Finally, we are deeply grateful to Sharon Bard, whose sponsorship expanded the possibilities for this edition and directly supported the work of our contributors.

TRANSLATOR'S FOREWORD

Soledad Acosta de Samper spoke English, traveled the world, wrote every day, and saved the newspaper clippings in which her novels appeared to turn them into albums. She married for love, had four daughters—one of them, a nun and a poet, published the version of the Novena de Aguinaldos that is sung during the nine days leading up to Christmas in Colombia, Venezuela, and Ecuador—founded five magazines, established herself as a journalist and historian, fought for women’s place in society, and resisted the censorship imposed on her most renowned female protagonist today in Latin America: Dolores.

Acosta was one of the most prolific writers of her time among both male and female writers. She wrote “twenty-one novels, forty-eight short stories, four plays, forty-three social and literary studies, twenty-one historical treatises, and founded and directed five newspapers (in which she herself contributed the majority of the fiction and nonfiction texts); she also produced numerous translations”. Like many women writers of the nineteenth century, she was censored and later forgotten. Her generation was one of thinkers, politically committed to defining how individuals were to be shaped as citizens of a civilized nation. This included, of course, the place of women, who were constantly relegated to silence and submission and assigned responsibility for the home and children. Acosta’s writing was politically engaged and openly opinionated. 

The 1980s, fortunately, brought with them a feminism committed to revisiting and recovering the literary canon of women writers. Acosta was recovered during that decade by pioneering scholars such as Monserrat Ordóñez and Carolina Alzate, whose teachings paved the way for this translation project, through which I hope to continue filling the gaps in literary production and scholarship surrounding the author. It must have been difficult to situate her within a tradition in her own time, but, like so many others, she was writing—as the reader can now see in this book—for the future. Her portrayal of social customs appears almost fantastical in light of the transformation undergone by her protagonist.

Dolores, titled after its heroine, was written in 1847. It tells the story of a young woman from nineteenth-century Bogotá who discovers a family secret that gradually leads to her decline. Through her letters and diary we enter her inner world, full of reflections on the meaning of death and love, religion and nature, illness and youth. The book was published in the same year as María by Jorge Isaacs, a novel that has since been recognized as Colombia’s foundational novel and has appeared in more than 150 editions (while Dolores has had only four over the past 150 years). Although it was perhaps not recognized for its brilliance at the time of publication, Dolores is today the most studied and critically reviewed of Acosta’s works.

Dolores is something of a unicorn in the practice of translation for several reasons. To start with, there exists an English translation produced in New York in the late nineteenth century. We do not know the translator’s name or the exact date of their work, since neither appears in the printed version. It is rare for a modern translator to have access to a version produced in the same period as the original work, and this access  offers  unique opportunities. On the one hand, the translation serves as a source for the idioms of nineteenth-century English; on the other, as evidence of the ideas that the translator held about a Colombian woman writer. For instance, there are passages in the English version in which Dolores’s complexion is described as “pure” or “white,” words that do not appear in the Spanish manuscript, although the latter does portray her with rosy cheeks and beautiful skin. In other moments, when Acosta devotes several sentences to describing the customs of Bogotá at the time—many of them employing words now obsolete—the nineteenth-century translator opts for a mixture of approximate equivalents and Spanish words explained (sometimes, though not always) through footnotes.

Yet this is not the most interesting feature. In the original English translation of Dolores, the entire third part of the novel is omitted. The book is a framed narrative: although Dolores is the protagonist, she is not the narrator; her story is told by her cousin Pedro. In the first part, his voice predominates; the second combines his words with the letters Dolores sends him. The third section—the one eliminated in the nineteenth-century translation—consists entirely of the protagonist’s diaries, in which her voice, previously mediated through letters and recounted conversations, comes through directly, with marked intensity. This structure is a way of circumventing the public’s preference for a male narrator and allowing Dolores to have the final word in her own story, without Pedro having to speak for her, as Alzate notes—a reading I share.

Though the absence of the third part of the book is striking, the most fascinating aspect of the manuscript comes from an act of coauthorship that corrects it: Acosta de Samper herself translated, by hand, the omitted third part. Or rather, she revisited it (not to say rewrote it). Every writer knows the temptation to keep revising a text indefinitely, as well as the experience of rereading a book long after it has been published. Time, distance, and experience turn us into editors and expanders. Translation, moreover, offers the possibility of giving a text something like a parallel life, in which it can exist in another register. That is precisely what Acosta de Samper did upon returning to her novel Dolores. In her English version, the final section abounds in paraphrases and in beautiful added passages that do not appear in the original Spanish text.

All of these reasons make Dolores a particularly fascinating challenge for a contemporary translator. This is how I chose to approach the text: I decided to preserve the anglicisms and nineteenth-century syntactic structures used by the original translator whenever they did not alter the meaning of the source text. Naturally, I did not include explanations unnecessary for a modern reader, nor did I add comments regarding race or femininity that are absent from the original. Whenever possible, I kept Spanish words that have no direct translation and included their meanings in the glossary, following Alzate’s definitions in the 2021 edition published by the Universidad de los Andes, which presents the authorized text. As for the stimulating—yet challenging—third part, in which Acosta de Samper restores what is missing, but also resorts to paraphrasing in order to adapt the long sentences of Spanish syntax to the English version, I left them almost intact. Where I encountered passages of particular beauty and poetic force, which also add a layer of complexity to the story and to the psychology of the character, I retained them, while carefully marking the beginning and end of these additions in the footnotes for curious readers who may wish to trace the transformations of the text.

Finally, I would like to extend my deepest thanks to Jessi Haley and Juliana Castro Varón  for making Cita Press possible and for giving a home to thousands of women writers who, like Soledad, do not always find a place in truly feminist and democratic publishing circuits. I dare say the author would be delighted to see Dolores reach so many readers around the world. Thank you, thank you. —Sara Abadía

PART ONE

La nature est un drame avec de personnages.
Nature is a drama with characters.

—VICTOR HUGO

“WHAT a pretty girl!” exclaimed Antonio, seeing a group on horseback passing through the middle of the square in the village of N*** ¹, just then arrived to take part in the local festivities, appointed for the following day.

Antonio González had been a fellow student and my favorite friend from my youth. Upon saying goodbye at university, both of us having obtained the degree of Doctor, he offered to visit my town during the parish festivals, and accordingly had arrived the day before at N***. Looking for amusement – and finding everything interesting, with the enthusiasm of early youth – we were overseeing the construction of the barriers in the square for the bullfight happening the next day. It was then that, like I said before, there passed a party on horseback, in the midst of which stood out, like a precious lily in the middle of a field, the most beautiful flower of the district: my cousin Dolores.

“What I admire the most,” added Antonio, “is the complexion, so white and delicate, as it is rarely to be found in this hot climate of ours.”

Indeed, Dolores’ jet-black eyes and hair contrasted with her blushed complexion and her crimson lips.

“You are right,” exclaimed my father, who was standing next to me, “her complexion is foreign to our climate… My God!” he added with some emotion a moment later, “I never thought of it before!”

Neither Antonio nor I understood the exclamation of the old man. Years later we would remember the impression that vague fear made on us, which seemed so strange…

My father was the physician of N***, and would have been noted for his practical science and his charity in any other village more civilized than ours. Contrary to the general custom of parents, he had always wanted me to study medicine, in the hope, as he expressed himself, that I might one day excel him in the profession.

An only son, satisfied with my own luck, pampered by my father, and well loved by a large family, I had always felt happy in my lot. I was then at N*** temporarily, to arrange some matters of business and soon be able to finalize my union to a young lady whom I had met and fallen in love with in Bogotá. 

Of all my relations, my aunt Juana, a very respectable and wealthy lady, had always been the most attached to me. She had protected and taken care of me from childhood, since the death of my mother. Dolores, daughter of a deceased sister, having lost both father and mother, had also lived with her for many years. And so aunt Juana divided her affections between her favorite niece and nephew.

When we had arrived at an age to think of the subject, it became palpable to Dolores and myself that our union was a cherished object of our good aunt; but human nature often prefers the difficult to a beaten path, and it became tacitly understood between us that our attachment should be purely fraternal. I think that a desire to render our union impossible had its influence in inducing me to engage myself in Bogotá, without vacillation and while I was still a college student without prospects. Considering then Dolores as a sister, from my first entrance into college I wrote to her frequently, recounting the incidents of my college life, and afterwards of my hopes as an engaged young man. 

This short explanation is necessary to comprehend the simple relation that existed between us.

After remaining in the square for some time, we went home. My father’s house was situated a short distance from the village; but as the celebration was to commence with fireworks in the evening, Antonio and I set to return in time to see the popular amusement.

The moon illuminated the landscape. A warm, delicious breeze fanned the trees, wafting the perfume of innumerable flowers. The smaller birds, disturbed by the moonlight, we heard in gentle murmurs, while the philosophic owl, always taciturn and upset, set forth his hoarse and ominous complaint. 

Antonio and I had to cross a paddock and the main road before reaching the square in N***. As we walked, we conversed joyfully about our hopes and prospects—for to youth the future always symbolizes happiness and fulfilled expectations. Antonio had selected the arduous but brilliant profession of the law, which, from his clear talent and natural eloquence, promised him a bright future. I proposed, after a few years of study and practice under a physician of repute, to marry, and settle in my native village to enjoy the quiet life in the country. It must be acknowledged that N*** was nothing more than a big village, despite the anger that the name inspires in its inhabitants, since it had now all the paraphernalia of a great city: a mayor, justices, judges and the rest of any local government. Unfortunately, all of these caused the village countless inconveniences. It was like a poor countrywoman who has gone all her life barefoot, with short petticoats, being put into tight boots, corset, and crinoline.

As we came closer to the village, the silence of the country changed to boisterous hilarity: one could hear singing to trebles and bandolas, loud cries and laughter. Sometimes a rocket announced that the fireworks were about to begin. The square presented a merry sight. In the middle of the enclosure for the bullfight of the following day, castles made of straw and oil-lamps that needed to be rekindled over and over again had been collected. For the time, the manufacturer of the show was the most interesting man in the place; all the children followed him in admiration of his science, anxiously listening to the orders and advice given to his assistants as to the order and manner of lighting the castles and firing the rockets masterfully. 

Antonio and I arrived at Aunt Juana’s house which, being situated on the square, was the best in town. At the door, and seated upon basket chairs placed along the front wall, were many of the local young ladies, talking and laughing, while their mothers and respectable ladies were inside the house, discussing graver matters, such as infirmities, provisions, and maids. Cachacos² from the village and from other places who had been to the festivities, passed up and down in front of the doorway without daring to approach the young ladies, who reveled in their kingdom and their charm without revealing the interest with which they regarded the young men. 

I approached the feminine phalanx full of spirit, certain to be well received; first, because I had just come from Bogotá, a great recommendation in the provinces; and second because I knew myself to be among friends and relations. I introduced my friend to the party gathered both inside and outside of the house, and, taking chairs with us, we proceeded to join the conversation of the young ladies outside.

The fireworks commenced soon after: the vacaloca, the buscaniguas,³ and other popular games, set the whole crowd in motion with noisy merriment. The smoke of powder partially obscured the light of the moon, which had hitherto shone so poetically upon the scene. The castles burnt out one after another amid the joyous cries of the multitude. After a few minutes, a stringent bang was heard and the fireworks closed with a volley of red lights accompanied by the suffocating quantity of smoke: this signaled that the end of the fireworks, and the crowd moved slowly away in various directions, all agreeing that the show had been most brilliant and entertaining, although the opposite could have been proven to them, by making them think about their fatigue, sore feet, torn dresses, and small burns; on such occasions the imagination is apt to exceed the reality. 

I then proposed that the party collected at Aunt Juana’s should make a tour round the square.

The feminine troop formed in column, and the unfair sex, scattered like guerrillas, circled around them. Sympathy is always inexplicable: in a short time Antonio and Dolores got together, and a lively conversation ensued.⁴ The square was filled with tables, and all sorts of lottery games were going on: bisbis, pasadiez, cachimona, etc., for those who would try their luck for the modest sum of a quarter. At other tables and under awnings some had drinks of all kinds: chicha de coco, guarapo, anisette, mistela, and even brandy and wine - not of the purest, however. Others found the ideal of their aspirations on succulent stews, ajiacos, roasted turkeys, and lechonas filled with garlic and cummin-seed. Farther on were horchatas, naranjilla, blackberry and pineapple juice, corn and rice guarruz, presented in bottles covered with little clusters of carnations or roses. Sponge cakes covered with white batter or cinnamon, eggs chimbos, candied fruit, cocadas, panderos, and small arepas in a variety of shapes; the whole assortment of sweets concisely known as “collation” was spread out on trays of various colors and sizes, in rows on coarse but clean table linen. 

Here and there were groups of people singing popular airs to the music of treble guitars, alfandoques and carrascas, going from place to place wherever guarapo or brandy was to be found, singing always, but never changing the languid, melancholy tone of the refrain, while improvising curious verses. This way they pass the whole night, singing, dancing and drinking continually, but never smiling — always in a lugubrious tone. Extremes meet, and the ne plus ultra of civilization is insensibility. The famous Lord Chesterfield counselled his son that he should never be seen to laugh; and that gravity with real or apparent insensibility is a universal characteristic of the savage.⁵

Suddenly  we heard the chilling, sharp, unmusical sound of the chirimia, which drowned out all other noises. 

“The festivities have begun!” everybody shouted joyfully.

Indeed, back then it was believed in towns that there could be no popular festivities if they were not presided over by the sound of the chirimia. On this occasion it was played by an old fellow who went about from village to village, party to party. He was always received with pleasure, and treated with great deference, as an indispensable guest.

The chirimia is not an instrument exclusively American⁶, something like a Scotch bag-pipe, or the gaeta of Galicia or Savoy. A similar instrument is found among the Greek sculptures, and it was on one of this description that Nero played, its discordant sounds harmonizing with his own disposition.

After having inspected the tables of the square, where hilarity reigned supreme, we next proceeded to a ñapangas or cintureras ball.⁷ Such was the composure of these women, that even the ladies liked to go and see them dance, without fear that their manners may be criticized. It had been announced beforehand that the ball would be full and noisy, and so it was; in approaching the place we found ourselves among a curious crowd, who surrounded the door or hung from the windows overlooking the saloon. Upon our arrival they made room for us however; the ladies found a place near the windows and us gentlemen stood behind them. 

The saloon was of ordinary shape, with a brick floor polished up for the occasion. On the walls there were some colored prints of William Tell, and Matilda of the Crusades. Four long sofas of rawhide, and some chairs of unequal size and shape were its only decoration; there were alcoves on either side, with red curtains in place of wooden doors, and along the walls strips of wood had been nails, supporting tallow candles, by the din light of which we could see the ladies seated around the room.

The ñapangas wore petticoats of blue fula⁸ —fringed at the bottom, shifts bordered with red and black, a red or blue handkerchief, and a little straw hat trimmed with a wide ribbon. Some took off their hats in dancing, and displayed long black hair, parted in double braids which hung down their backs, terminating with a ribbon tie.

The men, all of whom had pretensions of being social cachacos, smoked and drank small cups of aguardiente, fraternizing with the musicians, who, placed in the anterior door of the saloon, were occupied in tuning their instruments. 

“Get up, Don Basilio!” a cry came from the doorway as the band began to play an enlivening bambuco.⁹ “Your partner’s waiting for you!”

All eyes were immediately turned upon a man about forty years of age: fat, close shaven, a wide face and retreating forehead; there was hardness in his look, and a habit of closing one eye when he conversed gave to his countenance a singularly disagreeable expression.

“We shall have sufficient amusement tonight," said Antonio, “if Don Basilio dances."

“Quiet," I answered. “You will never be pardoned if he hears you; that man is presumptuous and revengeful."

“I will dance," exclaimed Don Basilio, with an air of importance, “if Julian will accompany me."

“Go forwards, Julian," the cachacos shouted and, forcing him into the middle of the room, they compelled him to take the hand of a merry, easygoing ñapanga, whose sparkling black eyes contrasted well with an orange-blossom in her hair*.* In the meantime Don Basilio took another, saying something in her ear that made her blush, and, with a complacent air, approaching immediately in front of her, began to dance bambuco. The girl, who was light and young, sprang to the floor and wheeled about the fat figure of her partner, making him ridiculous in his efforts to follow her; it was like a bear dancing with a kitten. Although too effeminate and full of affectation, Julian, with the other girl, made a pleasanter quartette.

But while they finish dancing, let us say something of these characters, some of whom are connected with our story.

Basilio Flores was the son of a poor countrywoman in the vicinity of Bogotá. His quickness and natural talent drew the attention of a wealthy land-owner, on whose estate the mother lived, and cultivated a small small crop of potatoes and corn. The land-owner brought him to his own house, and at leisure hours taught him to read and write. Enamored by the facility of the boy in acquiring knowledge, he proposed to bring him up as a useful dependent, on whom he could, in the course of time, devolve the management of a portion of his complicated business. He sent him to a neighboring college, where he made great progress in a very short time. Basilio was eighteen years of age when the War of Independence broke out, and the gentleman who had educated and protected him, being a native Spaniard, found it necessary to leave the country; but before his departure he called the boy to him, as it is said, exacting from him an oath, that, as soon as the country was pacified, he should withdraw a sum of money secreted in a certain part of the house and follow him to Spain.

The continuance of the war and unsettled state of things for several years prevented all communication with the mother country, and in the political crisis that surrounded him the young protégé forgot the promise made to his patron. The house having been confiscated and sold, he rented it for a month in the name of a family that was supposed to come from the country but never came to Bogotá, and then retired himself from the capital, to visit, as he gave out, a wealthy relative who resided in the interior, but of what province nobody knew. There were those who believed the relative to be imaginary, and that during the time of his absence he was at his mother's cottage, studying hard, and preparing himself for a brilliant entrance into the society of Bogotá. 

When peace returned, and the country settled down under the new order of things, it became known that the patron of Basilio, having remained for some time in the vicinity of Colombia, had fallen ill in the Antilles, and had hardly arrived in Spain before he died, and so suddenly that he left no will, nor made any disposition of his property. The heirs sent orders to release all that had not been confiscated, and it was supposed that a considerable sum of money had been secreted, but they could neither claim it nor produce proof of its existence.

Basilio, after a time, returned to the capital, with the means said to be inherited from his incognito wealthy relative, and strove by the manner of his living to introduce himself into society; failing in which, and disgusted, but not disheartened, and decided to use all means necessary to make his parentage be forgotten, he sailed for Europe, and remained some years in Paris. Being without friends or relatives, he gave himself up to the vices that surrounded him, and finished by the corruption of the little heart he ever possessed. Feeding his spirit with the skeptical works then in fashion, imitations of the philosophical systems of modern Germany, the American young man became a convert to materialism, and lost every sentiment of virtue.

After a few years he returned, full of ambitious hope, and desire to occupy a distinguished position in his country, and soon rendered himself notorious by articles in the periodicals of the day. He had carefully trained himself while abroad, possessed a happy memory, and a certain degree of eloquence, which, although superficial, helped him deceive others easily. He signed himself B. de Miraflores, and it is said that in Paris he passed himself for a Baron. He spoke both French and English with sufficient correctness, and salted his conversation with phrases and quotations from foreign authors. He was always extravagantly dressed, and for the most part in very bad taste. He hosted meals, which were pompous and boastful, and helped him astonish the common folk.

Unfortunately, his memory, which was good in some things, was faulty in others, and for the whole time of his absence he forgot his mother, the only person in the world that mourned it. On his return from Europe he displayed no anxiety to see her, or that she should be visited as such, lest it might discredit him; but, affecting the generosity of noble hearts, he sent a servant with a monthly pension to “the poor country woman who had nursed him," as he said, lifting his eyebrows.

After a short time, desirous, using his words, for faire une fin he offered himself in marriage successively to several young ladies, the richest, the handsomest, and most accomplished in Bogotá, all of whom very naturally disdained the alliance, which hurt him and caused him to say that “calumny is never satisfied," and sooner or later he took his revenge on them.

Discouraged in matrimonial projects, he threw himself into politics, but here too he met with defeat. The doubtful character of his antecedents, the bitterness and biting irony of his conversation, and his assuming manners, caused him to be disliked by men of status in any political party. Foiled in all his attempts to acquire the appreciation and standing to which he aspired, his next movement was to be feared and to revenge himself upon those by whom he felt humiliated by publishing a series of papers, lampooning the best society in the place. He allied himself with the most corrupt of all parties in the State, and succeeded, by the versatility of his talents, in acquiring a certain standing among the political writers of the day. His pen was always at the service of executive power. With the Conservatives, then called the reactionaries, he was an advocate of absolutism; he was eloquent in favor of individual guarantees and a standing army, supported the punishment of death, and scouted the liberty of the press. With the Liberals, also called the progressives,he became emotional when talking of the liberty of thought and a pure democracy, and was never-ending on the sacred cause of the sovereign people, and universal suffrage. He cited from all quarters, sacrilegiously mixing Plato, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Jesus Christ. In a speech on the anniversary of Independence, to win over the red republicans, he shed tears over the premature victim of democracy: Marat!

The political career of our hero could hardly be complete without the additional laurel of wanting to be elected a Deputy. In the central provinces and along the Magdalena he was too well known to be popular, and was therefore induced to try his fortune in the southern provinces of the republic, where, by a few well-considered speeches, he might possibly gain the popular vote, with which object Don Basilio de Miraflores had presented himself at our village, where he stopped after hearing the festivities were being prepared.

Julian was the type of a certain class of cachacos who, unfortunately, have become but too common of late years, whose demoralization has constantly increased until they have lost all the good that ever distinguished them.

The son of a wealthy land-owner in the South and educated in Bogotá, in whose colleges he remained for seven years, he had not suffered the ordinary privations that attend a student's life and best prepare him for the world. His complexion of pure white and red, light flexible figure, and a languid air were the admiration of young women in Bogotá, while the known wealth and position of his family procured him the hearts of all the mothers. During the seven years of his college life, and two more that he remained, as he wrote to his parents, reviewing what he had learnt, he learnt to speak a little French and acquired something of Latin; in History he had read the novels of Dumas; of Philosophy he knew little, and still less of Geography. He wrote in a neat hand, the spelling not always correct, but he was profound in the art of ruling; he could string verses, usually filled with apostrophes, interjections, and palpable allusions, sometimes amusing and effective. He played the guitar and piano by note, danced all the dances known, and gravely talked of the tedium of his existence, the loss of all the illusions of his youth, and his broken heart; while his fresh and healthy look and manner contradicted his words, and rendered it difficult to understand in what way his health had suffered by such irreparable misfortunes.

At the end of nine years he was called home by an express order from his father. Leaving the capital reluctantly, and promising soon to return, and leaving his heart pledged like a precious garment in three different houses: the first of a very beautiful girl; the second a very handsome married woman of high standing in society, who spent the last sunsets of her life being a painted coquette; lastly, in a small house beyond the neighborhood of Nieves, where his deceitful words had been the ruin of a poor girl, daughter of an artisan. The young lady soon forgot him; the handsome married lady found another escort, but the unfortunate poor girl deplored the foolish confidence of her youth to the end of her days. 

Don Basilio, inspired by the dancing and music, which brought back the time of his youth, introduced into the last bambuco some very ambitious and lofty dancing, in imitation of the French cancán of Mabille and Valentine.

“Bravo!” roared the cachacos, and in conclusion crowded round him, each offering a glass of brandy as refreshment. 

“Oh," said Don Basilio, lifting his glass and his eyes to the ceiling, “oh, Paris! Who that has seen your brilliant balls can ever forget thee?”

Such joyful fantasies, Such promising delights, Where did they go?

At this time the music commenced the waltz of the country, and all the young men hastened to seek partners among the graceful ñapangas. Some used ruanas¹⁰, and all danced with the hat on and a cigar in the mouth.

Our young ladies looked on the scene in silence, and not little vexed at seeing young men of their acquaintance joining in the dance, and treated on par with these women. 

“Let us go," they said, and left their places by the window.

Antonio and I accompanied them to their respective houses, and then returned to our own home.

I know not how it is, but the heart has sometimes presentments that we cannot account for, and for the whole evening the lot of Dolores troubled me; there were a thousand reasons why she should be happy, yet, without accounting for it, I could not remove the apprehension. Evidently Antonio was deeply smitten, but tempests of the heart always announce themselves with a sentiment allied to melancholy. Pleasure is only felt when you have lost the power of will and love without reflection.

Antonio suffered, I was sad, and we returned to my father’s almost without exchanging a word.

The following days we went to the penning of the bulls, to the bullfights, and to the dances in the evenings. Antonio appeared perfectly entranced with Dolores, and when we were alone, talked of nothing but her grace and her beauty. I remember one occasion when he became quite angry with me because I quoted to him an old Latin proverb: “It is not nature, but our love, that renders a woman beautiful." Dolores received the homage of Antonio with good humor and inexhaustible joy. She never could be sad and went after those who appeared melancholy with cheerful jokes. My friend corresponded to her lively genius, meeting her with jests and clever sayings characteristic of cachacos. The love between these two was charming—pure and smiling as a spring day—and the prospect of their union communicated a corresponding happiness to all around them. I have never seen two persons better adapted to one another, or who better knew how to estimate the good qualities of each. It is an error to suppose that contrasts will sympathize. They may produce in some a certain brilliancy of society, a feeling sentiment and passing inclination, but between persons who truly love, the harmony must be complete—harmony in sentiment, in education, in social position, in the very fountain of our ideas. A moral tranquility is the result of such harmony, and it alone should be the beautiful ideal of marriage and can insure its happiness.

Don Basilio soon learned that Dolores, besides her beauty and virtue, possessed a moderate fortune, to which he incontinently laid siege, and thought that his visit to the country might prove no bad affair, if, besides being elected deputy, he should acquire a wife. The legacy of the deceased unclehad been deeply impaired, and he had no desire to add poverty to old age. He discussed the subject with Julian by saying:

“To obtain a simple villageoise is not a difficult conquest. Besides, she is handsome, and I can present her in Bogotá without a blush," citing with his accustomed confidence from a French author, “Ella a d’assez beaux yeux… pour des yeux de province."

“But," said Julian, “you have a rival in Antonio."

“So much the better, my inexperienced young friend," was his answer, "don't you know the great Corneille said: ‘A vaincre sans péril on triomphe sans gloire’?”

One day he presented to Dolores a composition in verse dedicated to her, in which he declared his ardent love in words as cold as ice, and so full of citations that you could hardly find an original word. Mythology was mixed with Ancient History, invoking Venus and Lucretia, Minerva and Virginia, and concluding that “guided by destiny, he had mounted Pegasus to fall at her feet." At the instance of Aunt Juana, Dolores showed this sonorous composition to Antonio and myself, and naturally we did not spare a hearty laugh.

After remaining a few days more in our village, Don Basilio took his departure in search of popularity elsewhere, persuaded that he could do nothing here, and understanding that Dolores was about to respond to the verses he had presented with the same kind of no he was accustomed to receiving. It was easy to perceive that he went away furious against Antonio and myself, who, indeed had not disguised our ridicule, and he promised to make us pay for it some day.

The village festival concluded, the company began at once to separate, each to his own home.

The day before the departure of Antonio, I arranged a party consisting of the principal persons who remained. At a few hours’ ride there runs a noble stream, its banks shadowed by lofty trees, and a near trapiche¹¹ that offers resources and a place to leave the horses— the favorite place for those who organize excursions in the surrounding country.

At seven in the morning about twenty collected at the door of Aunt Juana to await Dolores, who did not long detain us, but came mounted upon a spirited horse, with a flowing dress and a little round hat, her veil in the wind, her appearance striking, and her look most gracious. After a noisy passage through the streets, we took a narrow road along some horse pastures that brought us into groups of those who especially sympathized together. I left Antonio to take the side of Dolores, remembering that some author whose name I forget said that there was no better time for a declaration than when mounted on horseback. And indeed the liveliness of the ride, the wind blowing all around you, the possibility to spur on or rein in your horse, of stalling or riding ahead without apparent reason, to look away or to find your partner’s eye; all of this enlivens the spirit and allows for occasions to be alone even in the midst of a large group. Notwithstanding this, Antonio remained silent for the most of the ride, and the expression of both partook of deep but sweet melancholy, possibly because they knew that they were to separate that night.

We accompanied the ladies to their banks of the stream, where we left them to their bath and returned to the trapiche, all in fine spirits except Antonio, who did not recover until the picnic was ready and ladies again joined us. The country was beautiful: the fragrance of flowers, the whirr of insects, the murmur of the river that flowed downstream among glistening rocks by our side, the noise of the wind in its passage through the overhanging limbs and leaves of the trees, and all the life and movement of a tropical climate invited enjoyment and repose, and the lazy bliss of living. Antonio and Dolores had separated from the rest, and were seated at the foot of a large rock covered with yellow moss. Dolores, in a state of abstraction, was occupied in tearing out the petals of a bunch of flowers in her hand, and throwing them into the river that splashed golden sand at her feet, while both watched with interest their fate in the troubled current. Some fell in an eddy and ran ashore upon the soft back; others into the full current and were soon engulfed in a whirlpool, and disappeared forever; others set out quickly and joyfully but falling into a pool the rocks had formed, there they stumbled and unable to escape, were saturated with water and sank little by little; a few, more fortunate than the rest, collected together and found their way to the middle of the river, descending in mid-current, on and on, without an obstacle.

“Do you take the philosophy of the scene before you?” said I, approaching from behind. Antonio and Dolores, both startled by the suddenness of the appeal, communicated with each other by looks more eloquent than language.

“And what is your philosophy?” they asked.

“That which may be drawn from the flowers that Dolores is tearing to bits and throwing into the stream; it is a symbol of Providence, and every one of these petals a human life. Which lot, Dolores, do you prefer, the one that has returned to the shore, and there rests quietly without any excitement, or to be precipitated into the current and lost in a whirlpool?”

“I do not know," was her answer, “but I should think those most unfortunate, embayed in an isolated pool, without the prospect of leaving it, and, look” she added, “sinking to the bottom, without hope, little by little."

“I, most decidedly, Mr. Philosopher," said Antonio looking intently at Dolores, “would prefer the lot of those who are joined together for the current of life."

A deep crimson blush came to the cheeks of my cousin, and, rising hurriedly, she joined the rest of her friends.

The laughter and joyful conversation, the singing and the harmony of the tiples and bandolas, the dance in the patio of the trapiche, and the general good-humor by which she was surrounded, could not animate Dolores for the rest of the day. She was content, at some moment happy; but there was still a shadow of melancholy, both in her countenance and in the modulation of her voice. Antonio was in the predicament of a man deeply in love. He became taciturn, and appeared rattled. Wholly engrossed by the one absorbing passion, he could not attend to what was said, or take an interest in anything else—a state of mind very tiresome to everybody, except to the one who inspires and understands it.

It was towards night before we set out to return, and it soon became quite dark, although the stars were visible in the clear sky. At a dangerous part of the road, where it crossed a little stream, it was considered necessary that every lady should be accompanied by a gentleman. It happened that, in passing the stream, the horse of Dolores slipped on some rocks and became frightened, and had she not been sustained by the arm of Antonio, who helped her back in her saddle, she would have fallen into the water. Back in the bank, one could see the fright and emotion Antonio must have felt during the accident, and his voice still trembled when he answered my question, evincing how tenderly and truly he loved Dolores.

Sincere love can have nothing selfish in it, and never is the heart of a lover more cowardly than when the beloved object is in any danger, even though said danger may seem of little importance to others.

Within half an hour they separated, perhaps forever—two souls who seem born to love each other so deeply!

When alone, Antonio confessed to me that he had not been able to speak to Dolores of his love; that it being so noble and vehement, he could not find the words to express it. He beseeched me to say to my cousin that he had not formally asked her hand yet, because his position did not entitled him to do it, but, hoping that he was not indifferent to her, asked me to beg her not to forget him.

On the same day that Antonio took leave, on his return to Bogotá, Aunt Juana removed with Dolores to her hacienda¹² in the country. I had witnessed the separation of Dolores and Antonio, and although her lips presented a smile, I knew that her heart would require some consolation. On the following Sunday, therefore, I set out early for the hacienda, called The Spring, which was situated on an extensive plain at the foot of lofty mountains covered with wood, in which cattle and a large cocoa plantation ranged. 

On arrival I found my Aunt was absent, and the house silent. I dismounted, however, and gave the horse to a servant, passed through the patio, and went directly to the quarter occupied by Dolores, who I was told I should find there. 

The favourite seat of my cousin was in a wide corridor in the rear of the house, overlooking an orchard and garden, with some tall mangoes, oranges, and lemons of the choicest kinds, rose apples and pomegranates; the trunks and limbs of the largest trees entwined with star jessamine and convolvulus of several varieties, with musk-rose and geraniums. Under a canopy of pomegranate and jessamine stood a water pond, whose constant murmur harmonized with the voices of numerous small birds. The aviary of Dolores was well known in the vicinity. It occupied one end of the corridor. In it were collected birds from every quarter and climate who had taught themselves how to live together peacefully. There sang the harmonious blackbirds, the cheerful oriole and the artistic troupial, the noisy sugarbirds, and the bluebird and the cardinal. In the midst of flowers, sewing, reading, and singing with her birds, Dolores passed the day. In approaching the house you might often hear the hum of the aviary and the sweet voice of the mistress at the same time.

But on the day of my arrival silence prevailed throughout the place. All nature appeared paralyzed by the fiery sun and suffocating heat. The birds were silent and nothing was heard but the trickling water of the pond, winding its way by gentle leaps through beds of flowers. From afar I could see Dolores, simply dressed in white, with no other adornment than her beautiful dark hair. She was sitting upon a low stool, with one arm resting upon her usual seat and supporting her head, while her other little hand, white and rosy, hung loosely by her side. I stopped to contemplate the charming figure, supposing her asleep, but she had heard the jingle of my spurs approaching, and rose immediately, striving to conceal the tears that filled her eyes, and gathering up a paper that lay with her needlework.

After the first salutation was over, seeing the paper, I asked, “What is this, cousin?”

“I was writing, and…”

“To whom?”

“To nobody," was her answer.

“What? Has Antonio already..?”

“No, Pedro," she responded with much dignity; “he never asked me to, nor should I have done so if he had."

“Dolores," I said, taking her cold and trembling hand in both of mine, “have I not told you that Antonio loves you madly, that he has confessed it to me a thousand times, and begged that I would exhort you to preserve your faith in him?”

“So far," she said, “he has given me reason to understand some preference towards me. But I can say no more."

“And that letter?”

“It is no letter," she said.

“A missive, then," I replied, laughingly; “a note, an epistle, a billet, call it what you will."

“You won’t believe me," she returned. “There, take the paper. It is written only for myself, but as you insist I will show it to you."

She did so, and it contained some charming verses, displaying deep sentiment and high poetic power; but a melancholy I did not know she possessed pervaded—it was a tender adieu to her happy and tranquil infancy, and an invocation to womanhood, that had suddenly opened like a new revelation. Her heart had been moved for the first time, and that shiver made her feel that a life of suffering had begun.

 Embarrassed and moved, she kept her eyes down while I was reading. Her pale, and rosy complexion appeared to increase in brilliancy in contrast to her white attire and dark unbraided hair. A vague sentiment of fear touched me at the moment, as it had done my father on another occasion upon noticing the particular color of her complexion; but the impression passed off, to be renewed again afterwards.

The remainder of the day was spent in my aunt’s house. I had performed my promise to Antonio, and satisfied myself of her feelings towards him. It was time for me to return to Bogotá, and I was impatient to do so, to see my betrothed, after an absence of six weeks.

On my departure Dolores proposed to accompany me part of the way, to point out a very beautiful spot at the foot of the mountain, that she had discovered in her rambles but a few days before.

She was in charming spirits, full of the animation inspired by a love that seemed to form a kind of halo around her. What matters a short separation knowing one’s love is reciprocated? At a part of the road where a narrow pass opens a mountain, she took the lead and I followed—not without admiration of her graceful figure, and graceful and serene management of a fiery horse, which to her alone was docile and obedient.

In a short time we passed into a more open country. A mountain stream came tumbling over rocks into a basin surrounded by quivering, varied furze and pasture. The stream was bordered on either side and arched by thick foliage of lofty trees, through which the sun never penetrated, preventing the growth of vegetation beneath, where detached rocks, and decayed trunks of old trees green with moss, partially covered the soil, carpeted by a soft, golden sand. The sun had begun to set, and the lengthened shadows produced a delicious freshness in that spot; flocks of colorful native birds, talkative parrots and paroquets, had collected on the tops of the trees, gilded by the last retiring rays. Here we dismounted, and my aunt, who had accompanied us, bringing out some sweets, with a coca-nut shell curiously embossed in polished silver, invited us to a rural entertainment.

“How delightful it would be," said Dolores, “to pass one’s life in such a place as this."

“Alone?” I answered, with a smile.

She did not reply but with a tender look intended for my absent friend; and then in a happy mood continued the conversation. Poor girl… but still happy in the ignorance of what was yet to come!

PART TWO

La douleur est une lumière qui nous èclaire la vie
Pain is a light that illuminates our lives

—BALZAC

It was two months after my return to Bogotá that I received the first letter from Dolores, which I have preserved with many others as remembrances of my cousin, whose distinct talent was unknown by everyone but myself.

MY DEAR COUSIN: I was waiting until I received notice of your arrival before writing to you; since then I have wished to do it, but have been prevented by occurrences at home and in my life that rendered it impossible… I do not know if I should confide even to you the horrible secret which has been laid open to me; but my heart requires relief, and I well know that you are not only my brother, but a dear friend, who will truly sympathize with me in my distress. I have read somewhere recently that there is a security in friendship that is wanting in love, and that makes it both indissoluble and double in its joy. Oh! friendship is now my only consolation. All other sentiment is prohibited to me…It is but a short time, you must well remember it, I saw the world as beautiful, happy, and charming; everything appeared to smile upon me… but now, great God!... an earthquake has overturned and converted to ruins the temple of all my hopes!

Pardon, Pedro, this circumlocution, with which I try to delay confessing my sorrows. It will indicate to you the terror I feel to see in writing what I dare not think of.

But courage! I will begin—

Some days after your departure, it was in the evening, and I was on my way to the apartment of my aunt, when in passing the corridor of the outer patio they told me that an old countryman, living on the confines of the estate, was inquiring for her; he had a letter in his hand, and, understanding that it was for my aunt, I took it from him, intending to deliver it, when she, seeing from the corridor above that old Simon had brought it, cried out vehemently, “Throw that letter away, Dolores; throw it away!” I incontinently did as I was bid, and let it fall. My aunt then obliged me to wash my hands, and, ordering a brazier, only touched the letter after fumigating it. 

I was so much astonished at the scene before me that I did not at first attempt to ascertain the cause of it. To me it appeared as a jest, and I exclaimed, laughing, “Is the paper poisoned, aunt? Has old Simon taken lessons from Borgia, of which we were reading?”

“Don’t laugh, my child," said she gravely, “the poison that this letter may contain is more terrible than anything ever invented by man."

Having said this, she read the letter, and, having finished it, threw the paper into the brazier, and saw it consumed to the last scrap. 

“Now it is proper that you should explain the mystery to me”

“There is nothing romantic in it," she interrupted me to say with a sad tone, “Do you not know that leprosy exists in our immediate vicinity? One of these unfortunates it was who sent the letter."

“Who?” I asked.

“One to whom I have been accustomed to send assistance, and who lives in the neighborhood of Simon."

“Poor man!” I exclaimed, “And does he live alone in the mountain, isolated from all society; no one even approaching him; living and dying without the hand or voice of a friend? My God! What a horrible lot! What cruelty!” I felt overcome; my heart seemed to sink within me, and I could not help saying: “It is a barbarous state of society, dear aunt, that rejects succor to the unfortunate."

“So it is," she answered, “but where is the remedy? It is said that this dreadful disease is easily communicated; and is it not better in such cases that one should suffer than many? For my part, Dolores, I confess that the very sight of a leper makes me tremble. I would rather die than approach him."

“How then came you to know this unfortunate; and why, dear aunt, do you protect him? I cannot but feel an interest in this poor man, for the address of the letter that I saw was very well written, and I have an impression that I have seen the handwriting before."

“Why do you protect him, you ask? Should we not always, as fast as in our power, alleviate distress?”

My aunt thus cut short the conversation. Although for some time the object of the letter was never alluded to, it left a strong impression upon me. Winter came upon us suddenly and with all its force. We were deluged with rain, as you well know sometimes happens in this climate, and became completely isolated; for not only were the streams rendered impassable, but the roads so flooded that nobody could reach us. I was continually awakened in the middle of the night by the noise of the tempest, and the sound of falling water; thunder and lightning filled the air, and the wind roared against the well-secured windows. While all this was acting without, and I well sheltered in my own room surrounded by every comfort, I could not help but think upon the lot of those solitary outcasts of society, the poor lepers. I could not but picture in imagination their hopeless condition in the mountains, amid the war of the elements, pressed down by terrible suffering, and alone, always alone…

One night I was reading late, studying French with the books you left me, and striving to gain some instruction and make progress in my studies, to educate my spirit, so that I might not appear altogether ignorant: acquaintance with certain persons from the capital had made having some education appear to me as indispensable. I thus went to bed late and was falling asleep, when I thought that I heard footsteps in the outer patio of the house, and the sound of two suppressed voices. A favorite dog that always sleeps in my room suddenly rose, sprung from the open window upon the corridor, and in less than a minute afterwards was leaping up on someone in the patio; but the voice of my aunt caused it to cease. It appeared very extraordinary that my aunt, who usually retired to her own room at eight o’clock, should be going about the house at midnight! I rose, determined if possible to solve the mystery, and, partially opening the door upon the further corridor, distinctly heard a man, speaking from below, say “Good-bye, Juana." His voice caused me to tremble; I thought I was dreaming…

“Wait a moment," said my aunt; “I am going to bring a portrait that I had executed for you by a painter from Quito, who happened to be here a few days ago."

Saying this, I heard Aunt Juana went to her room, and I, taking advantage of the darkness, concealed myself in an obscure angle of the corridor, from where I could see a shape standing motionless at the center of the patio.

The tremor and vague apprehension that seized me on first hearing the voice of the stranger, disappeared on finding that it was no ghost or work of the imagination; but I could not understand why she should have her sittings in the middle of the night and why she was giving away her portrait!... It is true that not long ago I begged her to have her portrait taken by the artists who had painted mine. A moment later she returned, and leaning on the balustrade of the corridor, tying the package she had brought with a cord, she said, “It is not as good a likeness as I could wish," and when the shape came closer, she added, “There goes also Dolores' book, The Imitation of Christ, which I replaced with a new one."

“You don’t know how much good this will do to me," said the stranger with feeling … “Oh, my poor daughter!...Her portrait!...”

That voice, that accent, made my blood cease to flow, and for a short time I was perfectly unconscious. A terrible idea, an awful terror, had flashed upon me, and completely overcome, I arose cold and trembling.

“Go at once, Jeronimo," cried my aunt; “I hear a noise in Dolores’ room, and…”

I heard no more. I had recognized the voice of my father, and my aunt had called him by name. My father, who for six years and upwards I had supposed to be dead! I thought no further about the mystery of this apparition; I sprang down the stairs from the corridor to the patio, I ran towards the shape and, upon approaching it, threw my arms around his neck. At the sight, my aunt, who witnessed it, as well as my father (and he was indeed my father), gave a shriek of horror; and him, with an effort of despair, separated himself from me, covered his face with his ruana and attempted to escape, and I to follow him; but my aunt, who by this time had descended to the patio, detained me, crying, “Dolores! Dolores! For God’s sake do not follow him— he is a leper!."

“A leper? What do I care! My father is not dead, and I will embrace him."

You can hardly imagine the scene that followed… At the end my aunt succeeded in getting my father away, and, calling the servants, carried me by main force to my own chamber, and there stripping me of all the clothes I had on, threw them into the patio, with orders to burn them the first thing in the morning. 

I could not consent that my aunt should leave me until she had explained these events; why my father was hidden from the world, and all the circumstances that brought about the events I have described… Our conversation continued through the night, and she did not leave me until the first rays of the sun appeared through the open window. I then rose, and, seating myself by the window, could not help but admire the beautiful landscape before me. You know that it looks towards the mountain range. In the distances the lofty chain and blue hills of the highlands; nearer by, a rolling country, covered with verdure, where the cattle feed, and horses and mares range unmolested; while the noble trees, with shrubs and shrubbery, from the foreground of the house, swayed with the momentum of the breezes, and amid those branches perched innumerable birds, just then beginning their matin song. On one side was the corral full of mooing calves, whose healthy breath mingled with the scent of flowers climbing up the balcony…. The day, the landscape, the rumors of the countryside were beautiful and admirable!... I saw but could not feel, for the whole course of my life had been in a moment changed. My father lives, but he suffers! 

Isn't it true, Pedro, that Lazaroth¹³ is a horrible disease? Knowing what inheritance awaits me, everyone would try to distance themselves from me and look for the early symptoms; I would be doomed to live in isolation! My father, who loved me tenderly, didn't want that stain to tarnish my reputation, so he decided to disappear. He has lived hidden in the most remote corners of the province, and it has only been a year since my aunt and your father found out where he is... But will I be able to live happily far away from my unfortunate father? Would it be fair to deceive others by hiding the disease that fate may condemn me to? My father has made it clear to me that he will not allow anyone to know that he exists… In your last letter you say that Antonio hoped to acquire a position which in a short time would enable him to ask my hand. Cousin, it is already too late. He must renounce every thought of the kind... Let him forget me! He must not be linked with my misfortune. Never disclose the reason, but cause him to understand the utter hopelessness of my accepting him. He will think me inconstant, ungrateful... but what can I do? This sacrifice is great, very great, but there is no remedy.

Good-bye.

Write some words of comfort to the one who suffers greatly,

Dolores.

After a few days I received this other letter:

I have your letter, my dear cousin, and it has been truly a consolation to me. Thanks! A thousand times thanks! You inquire the circumstances of my father’s disappearance, and how he could possibly have remained in concealment for so long a time, without suspicion or guess that he still lived. 

I have, so far as it has been in my power, collected the particulars attending it, and will give them to you in the order they occurred.

You know that, after the death of my mother, all my father’s affections were concentrated upon me; that he looked after me with the tenderness of a woman. I was twelve years of age when, perceiving a change in his health that alarmed him, he went to Bogotá for medical advice, and there submitted his case to several physicians of standing in the profession, who, after consultation, agreed in the opinion that the horrible and incurable disease was leprosy. In deep despair, without determining in his own mind the course most proper to pursue in this situation, he set out on his return home; but on the road leading him to the banks of the Magdalena river, in his excited state of mind suicide presented itself as a lesser evil, and the only remedy. In a state of partial insanity he dismounted from his horse and threw himself into the current of the river, with the intention of drowning; but you may remember that my father was a good swimmer, and, natural instinct and love of life prevailed, and he arrived in safety on the opposite side of the river, although in a state of exhaustion. There was found by a poor unfortunate, who occupied a small cottage on the banks of the stream, himself a leper, what a coincidence! Living alone, and supported by such assistance as was sent from a neighboring village, the produce of a few plantains and other crops, cultivated by the assistance of his two children, who sold them in the vicinity. My father remained for some days with him, and it was here that he conceived the idea of retiring from the world forever, and thus placing in concealment his own misfortunes and sufferings, lest this mysterious legacy should fall upon the life of his daughter. 

A little gold that he happened to carry in his pocket, and a few jewels that he disposed of, sufficed for his present support in that desolate area; but he soon separated from the leper. Isn't living on equal terms with a common person the worst of misfortunes? He purchased a small cottage, high up in the mountain, and there he lived, lonely and deeply afflicted, for more than five years. Occasionally he would visit the banks of the Magdalena and the poor leper, and consult with him upon the progress of the disease from which both were suffering. On other occasions he would go by night in the garb of a countryman, into the nearest villages, to learn, if possible, something of his family; more often to return disappointed to his disconsolate abode!

One day, going to the cottage of his friend the leper, he found the two children in deep affliction at the door. 

The leper was dead. My father was so much moved by the spectacle, that he invited them to accompany him to his abode in the mountain, which they, one a girl of twelve, the other a boy of fourteen years of age, most gratefully accepted. For a long time he had received no intelligence whatever of his family. It preyed on his mind continually, and his anxiety was increased by the death of the leper, whose sudden departure appeared as a warning that his own might be near at hand, and he could not resist the desire of seeing me one last time. 

He then commenced a most arduous journey over the vast deserted plains and mountain districts, accompanied by the two children.

Knowing that there existed a cottage on the confines of my aunt’s estate, he selected it for his domicile. The children by whom he was accompanied knew nothing of him or his history, and he could therefore with perfect safety send them to the village with letters to your father, revealing to him the fact of his existence, and asking information of his family. You may picture to yourself the astonishment of your father at this revelation, since no doubt existed in the mind of anyone that he had been drowned in the Magdalena; but, persuaded of the truth, he at once communicated it to Aunt Juana, and counselled with her upon what was best to be done. His first impression was to find my father and bring him to his own house, whether willingly or not; but you know the horror of my aunt of any person afflicted with his disease, and that nothing could induce her to accede to such a proposal; she argued that (and I have been assured that in this she was right), satisfied in her own mind I inherited a predisposition to the same disease, it was necessary to prevent the possibility of contagion. It was finally concluded that every necessary comfort be sent him, but that he should remain separated from his family, and his existence continue to be ignored. But my poor, unhappy father! He never desired more than to see me clandestinely and at some distance… You must remember the evening of your departure. He was then concealed in the bushes of the little stream. He saw us happy and heard our laughter.

I learn that his disease is in the last stage of its progress… and that at times he suffers terribly; but I am not permitted to see him, or to do anything in alleviation. I am always sad and withdrawn, and I feel that my character has changed completely. But tell me, - what does Antonio say? Does he easily forget me? … a foolish inquiry, isn’t it? Let us talk of yourself. I learn that there are obstacles that will postpone your marriage, but in the meantime you are breathing an atmosphere of hope and confidence. We have lived, Pedro, as brother and sister… to you God will give happiness, to me… but so be it. He knows how much I can endure and He will send me strength and resignation to his will. Good-bye…

I could not be otherwise but deeply moved by these news from N***. The state of Dolores’ mind that the letter disclosed, at times of morbid grief and at times exalted, alarmed me. I immediately wrote to my father that something must be done to distract her from continually brooding upon the painful condition of her father, which could predispose her more than anything to having an outbreak of his disease. A thought consoled me: that it seldom appeared in the children of a leper, oftener passing to the next generation and appearing in the grandchildren. Nevertheless, I could fully appreciate and approve of the honorable feeling that influenced her in desiring to break off any engagement with Antonio. I could not, however, bring myself suddenly to destroy the hopes of my friend. I saw him so happy in his love, the energy and force that it inspired his work, a power and vigor that would enable him to triumph over every obstacle. To destroy so fair a promise appeared to me no less than wanton unnecessary cruelty. 

This state of things continued for some months, until we received intelligence of the death of her father: I had a few lines from her, expressive in grief. She could not publicly mourn the loss of her father, nor wear any mourning clothes, for he had let her know in his last moments that he wanted his sacrifice to serve at least to protect his daughter from the suspicious glances of a society that would know what awaited her upon learning the cause of his death. 

My aunt, seeing her broken down condition, in the hope that a change of air and scene might prove of service, brought her to Espinal, both at the same time asking me to visit them there, as the distance was less from Bogotá.

I accepted the invitation, and went to spend a week with them. How was I to foresee the consequences of that visit to myself!

Nothing appeared to bring consolation to Dolores. She was as pale as possible, and every movement expressed the agony of her situation. She then reiterated the request that I should convince Antonio of the impossibility of their union, but without disclosing the true reason.

It was a painful duty that she imposed, and a difficult one. But on my return to Bogotá, I strove to convince him of her repugnance to matrimony, and the hopelessness of his suit— I cannot say with much success, for I often lacked value in fully distressing him.

In the meantime, my own matrimonial prospects had assumed an aspect that caused me great anxiety about the future. Don Basilio had presented himself in the family as an aspirant to the hand of Mercedes, who always received him coldly, but her parents with a cordiality very displeasing to me; and, after a little, as their attentions to him increased, I was treated with greater indifference. One day Mercedes said to me that she was very sorry, but her parents had received some information very injurious to me; that she had defended me, but could not prevent a journey that they proposed in the direction of Chiquinquirá; that her mother had promised to visit the Virgin a long time since, but had never been able to perform it; and she believed the principal object now was to separate us. I wished an inquiry to the charges brought against me, but Mercedes objected to urging it at this time, as she did not herself know the nature of them; that when she had been able to ascertain it I would be in a better position to defend myself.

Perfectly satisfied that it was all the work of Don Basilio, I promised to wait. In a few days the family, with Mercedes, set out for Chiquinquirá. For the first few weeks after their departure I felt dejected. My only pleasure was to converse with Antonio upon our mutual disappointment. At first Mercedes wrote to me frequently, but at last informed me that she was not to return to Bogotá as soon as she had expected; that her mother wished to spend some months with her relatives in San Gil. Every time I received a letter from Mercedes, it was cause for celebration, but eventually they began to dwindle, under the pretext that her mother had forbidden her to write to me. At that time, I still loved her and believed I was loved in return, and although I suffered greatly during that period, I remember it fondly: “All other pleasures are not equal to our sorrows,” as a French author once said. But little by little I got used to her silence and no longer waited for her letters with such impatience. I don't know the reason, but there were so many balls and gatherings in Bogotá in those days: I attended them and I confess that I was not sad. However, I always carried a discomfort in my soul, a hidden sorrow that clouded my memory of Mercedes.

I had been four months without any information of her, when I received a letter, and with deep sadness in my heart I realized that I did not open it with the joy it would have once inspired. In this she told me that, having stated to her father it was time for her to return to Bogotá to verify our contract of marriage, he answered that with his consent I should never marry her. He refused to explain his reason, but said that a prolonged absence would enable us to forget one another. Mercedes' letter was extremely affectionate, perhaps more so than any other; but with that magnetism, that intuition that exists between two people who love each other and that remains even after they have loved each other; with that revelation of the soul, I mean, that is understood without being able to explain it, I felt that in her warmest expressions there was coldness and detachment; that the sympathy and feelings hitherto existing between us was in the brink of being broken. From that day I began to reconcile myself to her absence, and to familiarize myself with the possibility of paths separating.

At last some important business brought the father and family of Mercedes back to Bogotá. As soon as I heard of her unexpected arrival, my heart leapt for a moment and I immediately headed to her house. What a sad disappointment! That feeling was fleeting, and I soon felt calm again. However, I tried to convince myself that seeing her would make me happy again, and on entering I recalled the scenes of former happiness, and tried to think that my former hopes were about to be realized. I arrived and saw her as beautiful as ever, but the light that was missing in my eyes had gone out in hers. We spoke: I tried to hide my indifference; she was distracted... As I said goodbye, I was overcome with immense regret. It is so discouraging to feel your heart empty, without emotion or enthusiasm!

Aware of the change in our relations, she made no allusion to it; I sought no explanation, for I feared a reconciliation that was no longer desired; and in this temper of mind left the house. I saw her beautiful as ever, splendidly dressed, and we frequently met at the theater, and at evening parties. The world talked of her conquests and admirers, among whom Don Basilio and Julian, who had returned to Bogotá, figured conspicuously; but instead of the pain and jealousy that would once have stung me to the quick, my own tranquility was little disturbed by it. I was no longer in love, and the stronger passions of envy and jealousy had departed with it. There is no doubt that there is jealousy, or rather a certain envy, in a heart that does not love, but there can be no passionate love without them.

Poor Mercedes! Occasionally she strived to bring me to her side; to conceal her own indifference, and I not to expose mine. I was very sad then: the human heart, including my own, seemed so small, changeable, and unworthy to me, even though deep down it held the memory of the woman I loved like an angel, but who had become for me a weak, futile being, easily led by the will of others. Sometimes my conscience accused me of having changed too. It was true, but I had not begun to feel indifferent until I noticed her detachment. Her silence, her vacillations during the separation, had made me see her in a different light, and the ideal of happiness that I had pictured to myself vanished forever.

While in this state of despondency, in which one neither wants nor hopes for anything, I received a letter from Dolores that filled me with the most painful apprehension. After reading it, I determined to see her, and to set out the next day for N***, and that evening went to take leave of Mercedes.

I was much oppressed in spirits, my mind was willing to accept any sympathy, and I think that if she had received me as formally, she would have regained the empire of my heart. How grateful I would have been to her for inspiring me with the feeling I believed to be the greatest gift given to mortals: love!

I ascended the stairs in a state of great perturbation, and my voice trembled on saluting her.

I found the usual company collected; on one side of the room, around the piano, was a group composed of Mercedes and some female friends, one of whom was executing a piece of music, while Don Basilio was giving a dissertation upon the opera from which it was taken; Julian turned the leaves of the music with a languid look towards Mercedes. On the other side was her father playing tresillo ¹⁴ with two or three friends introduced by Don Basilio, common congressmen from distant provinces, with stiff collars, tight jackets, taut gaiters, and hands so black and rough that it was clear who their forebears had been.

A little flutter took place in the company upon my arrival. All eyes were turned upon me, and for the moment there was an interruption of conversation. Mercedes received me with hauteur, turning her back after a slight salutation, hardly looking at me. The master of the house merely acknowledged me, and the company was as cold as ice; but, in the midst of the partial silence caused by my arrival, Don Basilio, addressing me in a loud voice, with his accustomed pedantry, said:

“Talking of the king of Rome, or, as the English say, talking of the devil—it is but a moment, young man, since we were talking of you.” He added, looking round with a significant air, “have you recently received any news from your interesting relations, with whom I became acquainted last year in the village of N***?”

I do not know what I answered, but shortly afterwards, approaching Mercedes, I told her I came to take leave, as I propose to be absent for some days.

“Naturally," was her answer, blushing with great annoyance.

“Why naturally?" I said, “you cannot know where I am going…”

“How could I not guess?... The deceived can sometimes open their eyes”

“The deceived?”

“The deceived woman, if you like”

“Explain yourself, Mercedes”

“I will. Know that I now understand the falseness of your behavior, and rest assured that all ties between us are severed”

“And what in Heaven am I guilty of?”

“I haven’t the time to explain now. Be satisfied to know that I know everything…” and then she added ironically, “I understand you wanting to visit the one you prefer!”

“I don’t understand”

“No? Then do me the favor to present my respects to your cousin Dolores”

“Mercedes, you are very unjust. I cannot think who could have invented such…”

She could not avoid casting her eyes towards Don Basilio as she said, interrupting me: “I cannot comprehend why you should have troubled yourself to take leave of me, since there can be no sympathy between us, and I take no particular interest in your affairs."

Of course, I knew the whole to be the work of Don Basilio, but pride prevented me from asking further explanation.

“I see it," I said, looking towards my rival, “but to defend myself at this time would compromise my own character. I see that the fortress is in the hands of the enemy, and that it would prove useless, any attempt to expose the calumnies and falsehoods that have been circulated against me."

And, saluting Mercedes and the company somewhat haughtily, I left the room, under the perverse and malignant smile of Don Basilio. Julian followed me to the door, and, offering his hand, said, “Pedro, you must not believe that I have any part in the conspiracy against you. I hold you in too high esteem, and am opposed to all such maneuvers." 

I thanked him for this spontaneous gesture, and we parted.

In traversing the streets to my own residence, hatred, revenge, profound humiliation that I should be made the butt of an adventurer, contempt for Mercedes who had become his instrument, all agitated my mind and made my heart beat with excitement; but I remembered that in leaving the room the eyes of Mercedes followed me, melancholic and tearful. I did not see her again for many years, and then under peculiar circumstances!

On arriving at home, they told me that a gentleman waited to see me. It was Antonio. Approaching to salute, he stopped short, and, refusing my hand, said, with agitation: “I desire, first, to know if my hand is given to a friend, or to a traitor of friendship."

“I, a traitor? Antonio!”

“Yes, you”

“Do explain…This is the last straw!," I said with dismay, “This only was wanting to render me insane… I have just come from seeing Mercedes, who has definitely broken off all intercourse between us."

“And has she not told you the reason?”

“She gave me to understand that she believed in a base calumny."

“A calumny! This time she might be right, Pedro! Pedro! There was a dream of hope left to me—your loyalty during so many years! Tell me the truth," he added, with a friendlier tone, “to lose all hope at once—but tell me, perhaps you loved Dolores before I knew her? And, in your last visit to Espinal, four months since—oh! Tell me the truth!”

“I swear in the name of our old friendship and by everything sacred, that Dolores has never been other than a sister to me."

“I do not know what to believe… I have been thinking a great deal upon your conduct of late, and there is so much that I cannot explain. Since you were in Espinal, you have on various occasions try to convince me that I should give up the hope of marrying Dolores, and will not even permit me to speak of her. All this with an air of mystery in it that you cannot conceal, and you do not explain the cause of such a startling change. My friend Durán told me, some days since, that nobody ever saw Dolores anymore, that she had retired from the world and never left the house…Lately they have circulated reports respecting you and her which I will not repeat. But tell me if there is any truth in them!”

“How, any truth?" I answered, disconcerted, and not knowing what to say.

“Tell me if you should marry her.”

“This is an infernal lie, the work of Don Basilio—and that you, Antonio, should listen to it!”

“Of Don Basilio?” he said; and a moment after added, “you are right, Pedro, it must be a lie. I wonder that I did not think so before. They told me that tomorrow you were to leave for N***. I shall delay no more. I cannot easily believe in the repugnance to marriage on the part of Dolores. Have you not assured me of her attachment? You yourself shall carry a letter asking the hand of your cousin, and we’ll settle the marriage any way we can. This will be the most effectual mode of confronting such a calumny."

“This I cannot do," I exclaimed, without considering the import of my own words.

“Why?”

“She says that she will never marry."

Antonio looked at me without saying a word, and I added, “There is a mystery in her life that I cannot reveal."

“A mystery!”

“Yes”

“A mystery in the life of a woman cannot be right. I insist that you inform me in what it consists. I am not the hero of a novel; if I am deceived, it will be with some clear reason you should give."

“I am not at liberty to reveal it. Dolores herself has demanded secrecy."

“A secret! And I was beginning to believe!” was his answer, and, rising, he seized his hat with an air of defiance, and in a voice trembling with passion, imposed silence, and said, “That’s enough. No one shall make a fool of me with impunity. Do not reply; I will not commit an indiscretion here. I will send friends to arrange the matter between us."

“It is a duel!” I said.

“I so intend it. And perhaps cowardice is another of the qualities that distinguishes you."

“You are blinded by passion, Antonio,” I said, procuring to preserve my own reason,  “between us there can never be a duel. This is ridiculous! Hear me: I have given you my word that the story you have heard is a base slander and falsehood."

“What proof” he retorted, “can you offer to show that I should believe your words, since you insist that Dolores cannot marry??”

“Time…” I said.

“Time! You are a coward!”

“I cannot permit anyone to call me so!”

“Then accept my challenge, or answer my enquiries”

“Antonio” I exclaimed, with great effort restraining my own temper, “Antonio, this is absurd. If circumstances demand it, let us separate, but not as enemies!”

Antonio, in a state of frenzy, approached me with his hand raised, crying, “Coward, hypocrite!”

It was too much; I lost all consideration, and; showing him the door, said, “Begone, and settle matters whenever and in any way you like."

The following day, at six in the evening, I was brought home in a state of insensibility. On the return of consciousness, I found myself in bed. It was night, and at the foot of the bed sat the housekeeper fast asleep. I tried to speak and move, but the effort produced a sharp pain in my chest and it compelled me to remain quiet. I was alone, without parent or friend, or consolation of any kind; the charity of my landlord being my only dependence and support. By degrees I began to recall the events of the previous day. I again saw myself placed opposite to Antonio, behind the hills of San Diego, each with pistol in hand. Julian was my witness on the occasion. The expression of Antonio's countenance was awful; he looked at me with a hate intensified by former affection. For the time, I had lost every religious sentiment, even the remembrance of my father… deep depression and abandonment seized me; I desired death. I pointed my pistol at Antonio, but the memory of Dolores, and the pain I should inflict in case of his death, brought back better thoughts, and I fired in the air. At the same moment, I felt a strong shock and fell prostrate to the ground… I remember nothing more.

I lost all consciousness, and for several days life hung upon a thread. When reason returned, and my eyes opened anew upon the world, one of the first objects they encountered was my father at the bedside, who had arrived in N*** without notice of my situation. The following letter from Dolores will fully explain better than anything else the object of his coming:

I do not know if you received a letter written some days since. It may have been lost, or possibly you did not understand it. I would now be more explicit, that you may better comprehend my situation, and the cause for the turmoil that dominates my spirit. I am perfectly calm, and think that I have strength to meet it with courage… Strength of mind! Great God! Calm… What irony!... no, Pedro, I am mad, desperate.

I am not sound in mind, at times a maniac…

However I desire and strive to overcome the horror of my situation, and repugnance to it. I must tell you all.

Ever since my return to Espinal I have felt unwell, a constant nervous affection and prostration, by turns one hour cold, the next burning strength followed by debility, bravery by timidity, fear by courage—in short, a mass of contradictions and opposite sensations. On going to N*** I consulted your father, who made many inquiries, and his countenance expressed deep emotion and sorrow, while I explained the symptoms of the strange disease that affected me. My poor uncle tries to encourage me, maintaining that it is only the consequence of my recent troubles.

My aunt desired that I should consult other physicians besides your father; but I was averse to it, and only wished to be left alone. However, seeing that my health did not improve, without consulting me she sent for several of our country doctors, who, if they have not diplomas, have experience, and collected at Espinal at the appointed time.

I trembled when called upon to present myself, but was received with so much frankness and good humor that I became encouraged, and lost much of the horrible apprehension that never entirely left me. Before retiring I understood that they would meet in the saloon for consultation on my case. Desirous of knowing the worst, I left for my room but concealed myself in an alcove, separated from it by a very slight partition.

A short time had elapsed before I reached my hiding-place, and the consultation had already begun:

“Poor girl,” said one, “there appears to me no hope…”

“The leprosy has hardly passed to the second stage,” said another, “and I think we should do what we can."

“All we can do is to retard its progress for a short time…” was the answer.

And there was but one opinion, that they knew of no effective remedy…

I know not what more was said, or what further their consultation amounted to. I had fortitude to hear their decision, and tried to look forward with serenity to the suffering that awaits me. But to be confirmed in what I had hitherto only apprehended, to look face to face with the spectre presented to me, of a sudden to contemplate all the horror of my situation, my strength gave way under the terrible blow, and, although still retaining a certain consciousness, I fell upon the floor, prostrated and exhausted. I neither shed tears nor uttered complaint. My despair is beyond alleviation. A long sobbing in the corridor brought me back to myself. I knew the voice of my aunt, and I arose, and hoped that we might weep together! Guided by the same interest, she had inquired the opinion of the doctors, and, hearing it, had not been able to restrain her emotions.

I approached her, and at first she could not altogether repress a certain feeling of repugnance, although it immediately changed to one of the utmost tenderness, and she said:

“My dear daughter, come and embrace me," tendering her arms at the same time. But the first look had pierced me to the soul. I could not forget it, and, flying from her without hearing her cries, shut myself up in my own room. I was an outcast, abandoned by the whole world! I remember no more. It appears that my aunt, after repeatedly calling upon me, and receiving no answer, became alarmed, and with the assistance of your father forced the door and found me in a state of insanity!

Yes, Pedro, in my desperation I had lost my mind, and so remained for several days, when reason returned, and I was left to contemplate the horrible state of existence that awaited me. The first thing I thought of was to write to you. You had always been a friend in whose sympathy I could trust, a brother, who has been my support and consolation. To you I call. I don't remember what I was saying to you; there was still a cloud of madness in my mind. Your father says that there is still hope, and goes to Bogota to consult with and take the advice of the most eminent physicians of the country. If there should still be hope! Father Almighty!... if there should still be hope!

The letter to which Dolores refers was the one that determined me at once to see her, when I was so tragically prevented.

As soon as I was able to get up, I wanted to accompany my father to the best doctors in Bogotá, who gave us some medicines that they said had significantly improved several lepers. My father returned to N***, leaving me alone, sad, still unwell, discouraged, and without prospect for the future. In this situation I learned that a wealthy gentleman in ill health, and about to sail for Europe, was in want of a physician to accompany him. I offered myself and was immediately accepted; but I could not resist the desire of hugging my relatives and my father before my departure. Besides, I wished to arrange about selling some property that I possessed, as a resource, having it in contemplation to remain some years in Europe.

Setting out immediately, I arrived at my father’s very unexpectedly, and after spending a few hours with him, went directly to the residence of Aunt Juana. I found her alone and very sad, for the medicine brought from Bogotá had produced no alleviating effect upon my poor cousin, who remained alone on the plantation, and, my aunt added with a gush of tears, would see nobody, nor permit any one to approach her. I endeavored to console her by saying that I should visit my cousin, and try to soften this extreme rigor in her mode of living.

I went, therefore, to the plantation; at first she refused to see me, but relented on learning that I was about to enter upon so far a journey that might last for some years.

She was seated upon a low bench in the darkest corner of a room obscurely lighted, and, with her white dress and colorless complexion, had more the appearance of a spectre than a living being. She did not wish me to approach, much less to touch her, but, using the prerogative of cousin and brother, I unexpectedly seized both her hands, and opened the window that I might myself see the ravages that the fearful disease had already made.

It was then at the commencement of the third stage. The light rosy color that first alarmed my father, and is the earliest symptom, had already passed off when I last saw her at Espinal, and had changed to a pale yellowish tint; she was now swollen, the flesh rough and purplish. All her beauty had disappeared; her eyes alone retained a brilliancy that looked unnatural. I perfectly understood that she had given up all hope of recovery, but nevertheless was cautious to conceal my surprise at the extraordinary change that had taken place. At first she hardly answered me, and seemed disposed to remain silent, but when I adverted to the pain she was inflicting on Aunt Juana, she said that her retirement and desire to separate herself were only part of a plan of life that she had settled in her own mind and intended to carry out.

“I wish my aunt to get used to our separation, since I will no longer be living with her."

"Where then will you go?" I asked.

“I will live alone” was her answer. “My aunt entertains an aversion, a peculiar horror of the disease under which I am suffering-she cannot overcome it; and, if I were to remain with her, her life would be a daily martyrdom. Besides, I have become extremely nervous; the voice of a stranger gives me pain and palpitation of the heart… I view humanity at large as an enemy that is forever persecuting me, harassing me, I fear it, and shall separate myself from those who fear me."

“But how?”

“Do you not remember the charming spot where we took leave when you were last here?”

“The little valley and mountain stream?”

“There I shall build a cottage, and, accompanied by the two children who attended my father in his last moments, and feel no repugnance to one in my situation, I may live out a retired life of tranquil solitude."

“This is madness, Dolores. How could you live alone in a desert mountain? No, this cannot be."

“Instead of dissuading me, Pedro," she said, “you should pity and assist me in carrying out my design. If not," wringing her hands in an attitude of desperation, “if not, I will flee alone to the mountain, and die like a wild beast in the woods. Look! Can there be anything worse than to know that your very presence inspires horror? My God! if you will not permit me to live alone, to hide myself from the world, I know not what I shall do… It is easy to take one's life."

The exasperated state of her mind precluded all reasoning. I could only offer to assist in carrying out her wishes. After a short time required to compose herself, she said—

“And Antonio?”

“I have not seen him. Perhaps you do not know…?”

“Yes, your father has related everything to me. I have been the cause of all your troubles and danger, but as yet you have received from me no consolation or any remark of gratitude! Pardon me, that my own sufferings render me selfish. I confess my feebleness: the idea that Antonio should look upon me with repugnance absolutely frightens me."

“But is it not worse that he would think ill of you?”

“Yes, it is, it did not occur to me before. Let him know everything!”

On saying this, her eyes filled with tears, and she wept bitterly. When recovered, she added: “Tell Mercedes as much as you like about me."

I answered, “Mercedes is no more anything to me. I would rather not enter into explanation. She should have had faith in my loyalty to her."

Dolores looked at me for a moment, and then said: “You never loved her, for true love obliterates pride and selfishness. You can neither entertain pique, resentment, nor unkindness of any sort towards the loved one."

“Let us say no more about her. Mercedes has other admirers, and I do not think of her anymore."

I took leave, promising to speak to my aunt, which I did, and at last convinced her that the life of Dolores depended upon carrying out her wishes.

A few days after, I joined my travelling companion at Honda. We descended the Magdalena river together without accident or occurrence of anything remarkable, and embarked at Santa Marta on the first of the next month.

PART THREE

Sólo te busco en la selva más lejana
tétrico albergue, asilo tenebroso
no pisado jamás de huella humana.

I only seek you in the farthest of forest
Gloomy shelter, dark refuge
Never trodden by human footprints.

—VICENTA MATURANA

Je meurs, et sur ma tombe, ou lentement j’arrive,
nul ne viendra verser des pleurs.

I am dying, and on my grave, where I am slowly arriving,
No one will come to shed tears.

—GILBERT

During the first months of my stay in Europe I received several letters from my father, containing particulars of the health of Dolores. Notwithstanding the best medical advice, she grew worse every day. All hope of recovery was given up; the horrible and mysterious disease continued its ravages, destroying not the beauty alone, but almost the human appearance of my unfortunate cousin. She lived in the dark, depriving herself of air and light, begging that she might be permitted to hide from an atmosphere that suffocated her.

At last, amongst others, I received the following letter from herself:

There is no remedy, my dear Pedro! it is now two months that, dead to the world, I am buried in this solitude. You will listen with patience to my complaints. Oh, take pity on me!

But no, why should I complain? The ways of Providence are hidden…but those of my own soul frighten me. I dare not think. I must tell you how I parted from my aunt, and of my arrival here. If my letter be somewhat incoherent you must pardon it, for my mind at times breaks down under my sufferings!

You may not know it, but it was after repeated begging that the building of the house was commenced,—a small cottage, clean and comfortable, at the place I had selected in the mountain. I wished myself to point out the exact spot, but this I was unable to do. Notwithstanding the urgency of any requests that the work should be hurried on, it was a long time before anything was done; months and months passed before it was sufficiently finished to receive me. In truth, it was retarded by my aunt, who could not make up her mind to the separation, but, overcome by my unceasing urging, and threats of leaving the house, at last consented to it.

In the meantime I remained hidden in my own room, communicating with your father and my aunt either through the cracks of the door or the grating of the window.

Finally, after long waiting, the house was reported to be sufficiently finished, and furnished with everything necessary for the establishment. My aviary had been sent to it, with a few flowering plants; my aunt taking a deep interest, and superintending everything herself, that nothing should be wanting to my comfort. Your father came to tell me, after giving some instruction in relation to my health, that he had sent a little medicine chest, with directions on the use of its contents, and said that “I should find everything prepared to meet the progress of the disease until, until…” The good old gentleman who had cared for me and pampered me, could say no more, but burst into tears. His sobbing reached me through the half-open door, so left that we might converse more freely. On hearing it an overwhelming sense of despair seized me, and, throwing it open, I fell upon the floor, exclaiming, “Oh, uncle! uncle… it is in your power to relieve my suffering; oh! For God’s sake, give me a remedy… give me something that will shorten life!” Your father covered his face with his hands without answering. Just then I heard my aunt coming through the corridor, which brought me back to reason, and, assisted by a strong will, I rose from the floor, hurried into my chamber, and shut the door; but she saw me, cried to me, and tried to open the door, calling:

“Dolores! Dolores! this sacrifice is too great; you cannot leave me so.”

“For an instant I felt my strength leaving me, but it soon returned," I answered with sufficient calmness, “I will set out in the morning at the earliest dawn, and it is my particular desire that nobody should approach me on my departure."

That night I had a tranquil rest, and slept well. I had overcome the agitation and excitement of the previous day, and felt strength equal to the occasion. A little before clear daylight, they came to inform me that the horses were saddled, and prepared for the journey; I arose immediately, and passing into the outer corridor, where my birds had been kept, saw for the last time the garden, the trees, the arbor... Everything around me brought back to recollection the happy scenes and dreams of youth and my brief womanhood. The cold sad light of early dawn clothed with fantastic shapes the well-known objects before me. I looked upon them for a moment, while my favorite dog came bounding and leaping with joy at seeing me. I hurried on, afraid to think.

The Majordomo, who was to accompany me with one or two servants to my new residence, was waiting with the horses in the patio, and, wishing to avoid assistance, with a spring I leaped into my saddle, bid adieu to the servants, and would have left a message for my aunt, but was so much overcome that for the moment I could not utter another word. Striking the horse with the end of the rein, the spirited animal sprang, and left the patio like a flash of lightning, followed by the Majordomo. I am unable to say what I then thought. My whole life in most minute particulars seemed to pass before me, as it is said to occur in drowning. I think that I was near fainting and falling from the horse, when a distant cry caused us to stop, and, looking back, I saw my aunt mounted and following.

Approaching, she said:

“My dear daughter Dolores! Do you think that I could permit you to leave my house like a criminal, without accompanying you to your exile?”

“Pardon me, aunt,” was my answer, “if I believed it, and deeply felt it; but, as you yourself had said that you would see me no more if I left the house—” 

“Yes, yes, I said so, but how could I leave you to go without seeing you, without bidding you a last adieu?”

I threw up my handkerchief to see which way the wind came, and, placing myself on the opposite side, spoke to her:

“For once, and in the open air, I cannot possibly communicate harm to you. Promise, however, not to approach me. Otherwise I make an oath to carry out the threat of removal to a distant spot in the mountains, and there die. Aunt,” I added afterwards, “this is our last interview. Let us then converse with the frankness and resignation of a Christian in his last moments. We should not show weakness, or be interrupted by tears; the indispensable sacrifice is now made. Let us accept it as one sent by Providence. When we arrive at the top of the mountain, I shall push forward without saying a word. We will not bid adieu, because neither of us possesses sufficient strength to meet the separation, and we might be overcome”

And so it was done. We then conversed with apparent tranquility upon the best manner of regulating my future life, while the hearts of both were bleeding. When we arrived at the narrow pass that you may remember, I pushed forward in silence. At the turn leading to the cottage, looking back, I saw through the trees that my aunt had stopped, and stood contemplating me in deep distress. Probably I shall never see her more!...

For a long time I heard nothing particular of Dolores. My father wrote that she continued to live in her solitude, and had prohibited the approach of anyone. At last I received a letter written in great trouble. One day, while at the house of my aunt, a message came informing him that she was seriously ill, which my aunt became so alarmed upon hearing that, notwithstanding her promise to the contrary, she insisted on accompanying him to the cottage.

They arrived at the house without being perceived. It was composed of a small sitting-room and an alcove, separated from the kitchen and pantry by a moderate-sized patio, filled with flowers, surrounded by a corridor supported on slender pillars filled with vines, between which were cages that contained her numerous birds. The door was open, and they penetrated to the small saloon, which contained ordinary movables, and the tables filled with books. On hearing the noise occasioned by their entrance, Dolores issued from her chamber without any precaution. She was so much disfigured that my aunt, at the apparition, gave a cry of horror, and covered her face with her hands. Dolores remained for a moment contemplating the expression of both uncle and aunt, and then, without saying a word, left the house. My father followed, calling to her, but could only see her escape toward the highest part of the mountain. Pursuing the track she had taken, he continued calling, without response, to the point where she had disappeared altogether; following a rugged path, and still calling to her, until he arrived at a little clearing in the forest, where the mountain presented an inaccessible barrier, but the dense forest closed in completely further up, and a little stream came rushing through a narrow gorge in the rocks, only to be passed by wading to the knee. As Dolores neither answered nor appeared, my father came to the conclusion that she must have taken another road. He therefore determined to return to the house to consult with the servants, and accordingly did so. None of them had seen her leave like that before, but all immediately set out in pursuit. My aunt was so much affected by the event that my father advised her to return to her own house, while he continued the search. 

The servants and all the people about the place were indefatigable in scouring the mountain to which it was supposed she had gone; but hours passed without any intelligence, and night came on and was passed without news. My father rose with the first rays of light filled with anxiety, for, in addition to the disappearance of my cousin, my aunt had become seriously ill. 

But the events that followed are so fully described in a letter afterwards received from Dolores herself, that I shall transcribe such portions as relate to them.

…I thought, Pedro, that you would never again hear of me… My good friend, I wished to die, and could not accomplish it. I had for some time felt very unwell, and depressed in spirits; the prostration was dreadful; I passed days without speaking, and hardly partook of any food; Isadora and her brother probably became alarmed on seeing me in this condition, and informed the family. I have not attempted to inquire how it was that your father and my aunt were brought so suddenly and unexpectedly to the cottage, but such was the surprise and horror depicted in the countenance of both on seeing me that I felt I had lost all claim upon humanity, and, without knowing what I did, rushed from the house. I must have lost my senses, for it appeared to me that a hundred horses were in pursuit, and I heard the barking of innumerable packs of hounds… I ran with all my might along the stony bed of the stream until I reached an exposed area. I crossed it, wading in the water, unconscious of the wetting, and without thinking that I was hurting myself on the thorns of the bush, or thinking what I should do among the briars on the mountain; at last I became exhausted, and compelled to stop. I now heard nothing of the cries pursuing me, and found myself alone on the mountain, in silence, broken only by the chirp of a bird or insect, or the rustling of leaves disturbed by my own footsteps. Utterly exhausted, I fell to the ground insensible, and cannot tell you whether I fainted or slept; night came on before I recovered, and when I did, I found myself in utter darkness in the midst of the forest. What to do I knew not. Death appeared as the only relief, and I now rose in my despair to seek a precipice, but the mountain in that place is on a gentle slope of the hill, and I could not find any place that was suitable.

I felt no pain; you know that in my disease the skin becomes paralyzed, and loses its sensibility. But I had been severely lacerated, my clothes in shreds, and covered with blood. After wandering for a long time, I knew not whither, I came upon a more open space, surrounded by lofty trees, and rocks covered with thick moss laid at their feet. I felt a delicious freshness in the atmosphere on escaping from the thick woods, and casting my eyes to heaven, lay down upon a large rock. Night and darkness covered the earth, but the stars of heaven broke forth in all their splendor; those celestial lamps lighted up one by one, like altar candles in a church. How many constellations, what marvelous movement of those distant suns, what innumerable worlds moving in space, in a universe that knows no limit…! By degrees the mystery and magnificence of the scene had a calming effect, and brought back a better state of mind and more sober reflection; for what was I that I should rebel against the dispensations of Providence, the decrees of the Almighty? The stars of heaven sent forth a light that died before it could reach my remote spot, and yet they seemed to look down upon me with compassion… Compassion! Does not everything look upon me with horror? No, there is perhaps one being that remembers me fondly. I will tell you the truth: Antonio’s memory saved me. I know by intuition, and am confident that he has not forgotten me. Wouldn’t the security in his sympathy give me strength to live with resignation to my fate? Do not believe me ungrateful. I remember you also with affection. You at least never displayed disgust towards me.

But the stars lost their splendor, the night became dark, and I wanted courage to pass it alone in the forest. The nervous agitation that hitherto supported me had disappeared in a great degree with the return of reason, and although weary and prostrate, I now sought to find a shelter where I might pass the night in safety. I remembered the stony path by which I had ascended the mountain; the positions of the stars had been a favorite study during long solitary evenings. I sought a star that always shines in the west, even after the sun has disappeared, which assisted to direct my course towards the humble residence of a crippled woman with an idiot son, and after rambling for a while, I happily struck the path and followed it. It led into a thick wood. The star disappeared and at every step the darkness increased. I had lost my shoes, and my feet refused to carry me much farther, when the barking of a dog was sweeter music to my ear than I had ever heard before! A short distance farther and I came upon the hovel; the dog was kept off with a stick picked up in the mountain as a support, and now served as a defence. I pushed aside the rush matting that served for a door, and, waking the crippled woman, begged permission to lay me down in a corner. 

I passed a miserable night, continually awake, and then falling into a dull slumber from sheer fatigue and exhaustion. As soon as it was light the idiot boy was up, and lighted a fire in the middle of the floor; then, placing a pot, upon three stones that he had at hand, he made a stew, with yams, plantain, and a little salt meat, I remaining in my corner, observing him but without moving, until invited to partake of a plate of his hot broth and vegetables. I felt that my extreme debility arose as much from want of food as from fatigue, and took with thanks what was offered, ending the meal by breaking the plate, as if by accident, and throwing away the spoon. 

As the sun rose the heat of the place became intolerable, and I sallied forth to breathe the air. My dress was covered with mud and torn to shreds, my hair disheveled, and my whole appearance such as to excite terror to the inmates of a hovel. They could not recognize me, although I had on several occasions visited the sick woman; but although they did not know me, the crippled woman understood the disease under which I suffered, and with kindness advised me to sit outside in the open air… I comprehended the repugnance I caused even to those unfortunate beings, and, profoundly humiliated, did as she desired. I wished to inform the family that I should not return to the cottage until they solemnly promised not again to visit or molest me; the idiot boy could not speak plainly enough to carry a message, and I was in difficulty how to send it, but found a lead pencil in a pocketbook that by good luck had not been lost in my flight. The crippled woman gave me a piece of paper that the idiot boy had brought with some medicine from aunt Juana, and upon the trunk of a fallen tree near the hovel I wrote a few lines with a trembling hand, which I gave the idiot boy to carry to the plantation, promising to pay him well for his trouble.

My two servants arrived the same afternoon. Isadora brought some clothing with her, and Juan a saddled horse with a letter from your father, informing me that my aunt was seriously ill in consequence of her suffering on my account, and promising not again to molest me without my consent.

So I returned to the cottage for recovery… Yes, recovery! Oh, sad humanity! would it not have been better that I had died? But such is human nature; we all desire to live, the miserable as well as the happy… Yes, Pedro, while I gained strength and succeeded in preserving a miserable existence, my poor aunt died of terror, apprehension, and anxiety on my account. A violent fever set in, and at the end of two days she succumbed to it, without the knowledge of anyone, but beset by the remembrance, and continually calling for me. You may perhaps think it unnatural that I can tranquilly relate the death of one who loved me so sincerely and affectionately. I do not know how to answer you; I do not know myself. It appears to me that I have lost all sensibility. I never shed tears; the fountain is dried up; I do not complain nor am I moved by anything that occurs. I desire death, anxiously desire it, but I dare not seek, and strive to avoid it.

My mind is a chaos, my existence a horrible nightmare. Send me some books, I beg you. I wish to feed my soul with beautiful thoughts. I would live with the dead, and converse with them…………………

The letter of Dolores left a deep impression. That a character so mild and amiable should have been so completely changed by her sufferings, the measure of which it strongly portrayed. I looked out some good books and sent them to her. For several years following this I received but brief notes, all evincing a crushing sadness, and some religious doubt and hate of the world, which gave me great pain. My father wrote that he never saw her again, but sent a person weekly to carry the things she needed, and to bring him such information as he could gather respecting her.

Antonio had long repented of his violent conduct with me, and we kept up an active correspondence. It was a terrible blow when he first learned the horrible lot of Dolores, and the impossibility of their union; but, severe as it was, he recovered from it, and with redoubled energy overcame the pain it cost him by devoting himself to labor, and the study of his profession. He soon became known as a man of talent, distinguished both by his eloquence and attention to business, and rose to an honorable position in the state.

I passed several years in Europe in the study of my profession, and was preparing to return home, when I received information of the death of my father. I will not attempt to describe the pain it cost me… Dolores wrote at the same time, expressing the grief and desolation in which it had left her. Although I could hardly derive pleasure from revisiting my now desolate home, I felt a strong desire to be near my cousin Dolores, and embarked as soon as possible.

I arrived in due time at Bogotá, but was there detained to witness the marriage of Antonio to a lady of one of the best families in the capital—rich, and every way estimable. I immediately wrote to Dolores announcing my arrival, stating the cause of my detention, and the brilliant matrimonial connection of Antonio.

The wedding was magnificent, if not particularly joyous. The lady was not especially handsome, but her careful education, high culture, and amiable character caused one to forget the want of beauty. When the ceremony ended and I bade adieu to Antonio at the door, he handed me a letter for Dolores, written on that day. A tear was in his eye, the last tribute of juvenile attachment.

Eight days after I arrived in the vicinity of N***, but instead of entering the village, took a by-road that brought me to the valley of Dolores’ residence. On arriving at the path that years before I had passed in the company of my cousin, I could not but think of her graceful figure, her brilliant look, her joyous words. I heard the echo of her silvery laugh, which appeared still to vibrate in the solitude. What changes had occurred since then! —my aunt was dead, my poor father had followed her, my love was the wife of another (I do not know if I have mentioned her marriage with Don Basilio), and last my cousin, then a happy girl, now buried in affliction. I had avoided the village that brought back so many sad remembrances, and knew nothing of Dolores.

As I approached the cottage unusual sounds reached me, and under a tree were several horses ready saddled. I gave mine the spur and arrived at the door the same moment that the priest of the village and several persons were issuing from it, and the old priest, recognizing me, said, “What a coincidence to meet you here," at the same time detaining me at the door. He was a respectable old man, who had been the village pastor since I was a child.

“Is Dolores within?” I asked after the first salutation.

“Dolores! perhaps you do not know…”

“What? I wish to speak to her."

“No! no! do not go into the house," he said, at the same time seizing hold of my hand.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“The poor girl!," he answered, with evident emotion, “this morning ceased to suffer!”

“My God!” I exclaimed, feeling that the last tie that bound me to my native province had separated; and then I understood how necessary that affection had been for me. Sitting down in silence at the portal of Dolores' house, with bowed head, I covered my face with my hands. Those who accompanied the priest retired from a sense of delicacy, while he seated himself beside me.

“Her death," the good clergyman said, “was that of a Christian. Some days since I received a message requesting me to see her, intimating at the same time that it was not necessary that I should come near her, since we could converse through the opening of the alcove. I came several times. Yesterday she made her confession and received the last rites of our holy religion. This morning a messenger came to inform me that she was dying, up to that point I had not been able to see her. I cannot tell you how much she had changed!” After a short pause, he added: “Having seen her expire, I propose to return to the church and make the necessary arrangements for the funeral and interment."

I did my duty and assisted at the interment, which she directed should be in the patio of the house, and that the place should hereafter remain uninhabited.

Among her papers was found a will leaving her property to me, and a number of compositions in prose and verse. Here are a few fragments of a Diary, the contents of which exhibited most clearly her character, her moral sufferings, her vacillations, and her desperation.

June 23th, 1843

A year has passed, a whole year since I’ve been suffering alone—isolated, abandoned by the world in this wilderness. Oh, if anybody would remember me! If it was so, I know I would feel bursts of consolation, and this broken heart would be inspired to resign. Afar in the distant plain they run about and enjoy themselves. Tomorrow is the Saint John’s Eve, the anniversary of the festival in N***. The festival! What memories come to mind! Today I found by chance a bouquet of withered jasmine. Could it be believed that this monster I see in the glass is the same pretty girl who got these flowers as a gift? Antonio, Antonio, you whom I love in the secret chamber of my soul, whose memory is my only consolation. Antonio, do you perchance think of the unhappy girl you loved? If you knew how your image haunts me! I hear your name is the wind that sighs amongst the foliage of the trees, in the running stream; the scent of my favorite flowers bring to me the thought of you; I see your name in the pages of the books I read; my pen traces it in every page I write; in the evening when I look on the beauty of the sky I see it drawn with the brightest stars; in the sand of the stream I bathe in; I see your form, oh! beloved Antonio, in the clouds when the sun sets in glory, and I hear your voice in my dreams by night… My God! That this love should be so strong, so deep, so wide, and my lips condemned to be forever silent! …………………

December 8th, 1843

Life is to me like a black coffin I am already shrouded in. Is death perhaps the beginning of another life? What irony! At the bottom of my mind I can only find the feeling of nothingness. If God was really just and merciful like people say, would he allow such a wretched soul like myself to suffer such? Oh! Death, come, come to the aid of the unhappiest being on earth! Loneliness is everywhere, silence, stillness, the maddening calmness of Nature… The sky fills me with horror with its ghastly beauty, the moon does not move me with its exalted beauty, the plains bore me, the flowers bring memories of my past life, why come and cause such deep feelings to one that no longer exists?…If it was true that death is the beginning of another life, better than this one, or worse, I would not care, I would seek it without delay. But I believe in nothing. Religion has dropped from my soul as through a siève. If God lived could He be so unjust? What have I done in my drawing into womanhood that I should be so punished? Why does He not send death to deliver me from my sufferings? If He hears my voice of despair why does He not take me at last to His breast… No, no I cannot believe! Heaven is mute and empty and I am alone on earth… Sometimes the sky in all its beauty is to me so silent and so awful that I hide myself in the darkest corner of my cottage. Why does the splendid sun send his brilliant light to me? Why does the moon insult my misery with its supernatural beauty upon the blue expanse of the heavenly vault? I turn my eyes away from the distant freen fields, the wavering boughs of the trees, the splendid flowers that bring to me recollection of my past and transient happy life. Sun, moon, stars, murmuring waters, why, oh! Why come to pierce my agonized heart with soulless joy?¹⁵

May, 1844 

…horrible torment… my awful illness does not continue to advance as it ought to. Will I live great many years still? Sometimes I wake at night after an agitated dream. I fancy I have found at last a pistol and try to discharge it but cannot do it; in my efforts to fire I wake to find myself living. Other times I feel like I was sinking, sinking in a river. I know death awaits me at the bottom of the stream, but when I feel myself drowning, I awake from an intense surge of joy.

February, 1845

Today I received a letter from my cousin Pedro. He is very kind and it is a consolation to find I am not yet utterly forgotten by all besides my good uncle… He wrote to me about his quest and studious life, his projects for the future, his schemes… oh! No, I said his letter had been a comfort to me, an alleviation in my misery, but it is not true. Men are the cruelest beings ever created: to mention a future to one that has none of her own, a poor creature that is cut from the living. In the Middle Ages when it was found out that a person was afflicted by this mysterious malady he was considered as one dead. He was taken to church, and the priests read over him the funeral service; after that he was deprived of all communication with the worlds, he never knew any more what happened in it, he had nothing to do with his fellow creatures; those that loved him once considered him dead… I am not like them; I flew to a wilderness to bury myself alive, to forget and be forgotten by all those I left in the land of the living. To love, what does it mean? To love is to feel pleasant emotions: the doctors say that lepers lose their nervous system. Then, for what purpose do I feel? Why do I tenderly recall those I loved? ……………………

April, 1845

… God, religion, future life!¹⁶ Unfathomable questions! Terrible vacillations of my soul! If my malady was only of the body, if it had not changed my spirit! But the nature of my character changes:  my heart is like that of the beast in this wilderness, cruel, cruel—and cold as the stones I see at the bottom of the running stream. Sometimes in a fit of madness I fly to my flowers, which seem to insult me with their beauty, and I tear them apart, and throw them in the wind. A moment after I come back to my senses, I tenderly look for them and cry when I find them withered. Other times, my soul rebels: it cannot believe so good a God could make me suffer so, and I deny His existence. Afterwards, I humble myself, throw myself on my knees and fall into endless adoration of the Almighty Being……….

September, 1845 ¹⁷

Ever the silence, the loneliness, the absence of a friendly voice to caress me with a word of sympathy. Eternal separation! Can there be a more terrifying thought for a being born to love?

January 1st, 1846

I am going through a period of complete discouragement and lethargy. Lately, I’ve been living as though in a dream… I am not sad nor desperate. I feel nothing in my heart: everything is indifferent to me; life is suffering, death… Everything passes and merges in the darkness of my soul, and nothing moves me. One feeling! One feeling even if it were of sorrow, fear, fright (the only things to which I can aspire), I would bless as a consolation: such is the state I am in! This is worse than my mad desperation of times past. I vegetate like a rotting tree: I live like a stone in some deserted place…

March, 1846

At times I intend to study, to read, to learn, just to do something, dedicate myself to intellectual work, and thus forget my situation: I endeavor to flee from myself, but always, always thought pursues me, and, as the French writer says: “Le chagrin monte en croupe et galope avec moi”.¹⁸

A woman is essentially a loving being, and in all of life’s events wants only to shine before those loved by her. Vanity in her is for the sake of love, as for a man it is for ambition. For whom do I learn? My studies, my education, my talent, if it were true that I possess any, is all useless, for I can never inspire a feeling of admiration: I am alone, alone forever…

September 6th, 1846

… It has come at last… Death is at my door. My hand writes these lines with great difficulty, but I will trace here my last thought in the world. I have asked, I have prayed for this hour… And now what do I feel? Why did it not come when I lived with a fallacious fancy, a mad conceit, an imaginary conception of a thing that could not be?... The loss of this beautiful and impossible ideal has broken at last, the link that tied me to this world cut asunder forever!

I received a letter from my cousin Pedro. It was dated from Bogotá on his way back from Europe. When it was given to me I was so glad! I will hear at last a loving human voice that will bring me news from Antonio. I went out to the edge of the running stream, my favorite seat. I felt my dull heart beating against my side… I thought I heard Antonio’s voice in the low music of the murmuring water. He will send me a message, a kind word with Pedro, I thought. But oh! What a surprise! My cousin only speaks to me about Antonio’s marriage. Antonio’s marriage! Oh! Fool, fool that I have been in all these years!... I knew I would never see him again, but the idea that he would love another woman as he loved me never passes my mind. I woke as from a dream, it seemed to me the years that have gone were happy, oh! So happy while my delusion lasted… Everything around me spoke of him; there is not a corner in my cottage where he did not live in spirit; there is not a tree, a plant, a flower, a radiant star, a lovely weed, that is not in it something of Antonio for me… I don’t know what I felt; though it was midday everything was dark about me. I felt I was really dying. This news stabbed me to the heart. I only needed a strong emotion that my soul would leave forever this tainted body. I know, I have studied my malady too well not to know the symptoms of death. I have prepared everything for this last act of my miserable life… oh! Merciful God I am coming to thee at last! I love thee only… Antonio, my loved one on earth, has forgotten me, but oh! My Saviour, my Redeemer! Make Him as happy as thou hast made me unfortunate; instead of my long martyrdom give him felicity, give him health, give him success, give him joy… Now I am ready, and I will go to thee, Christ and rest forever on thy compassionate and tender Heart!...¹⁹

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Acosta de Samper, Soledad. Dolores. Bogotá: Ediciones Uniandes, 2021.

Acosta de Samper, Soledad. Dolores: The Story of a Leper. New York, 1899. https://babel.banrepcultural.org/digital/collection/p17054coll26/id/15636

Acosta de Samper, Soledad. Dolores: Cuadros de la vida de una mujer. Serialized in El Mensajero: diario de la mañana. (Volume 1, Nos. 59-70, January 187). https://babel.banrepcultural.org/digital/collection/p17054coll26/id/15705

Acosta de Samper, Soledad. "Dolores: Cuadros de la vida de una mujer." In Novelas y cuadros de la vida Sur-America. Gante: Imprenta de Eug. Vanderhaeeghen, 1869. https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obra-visor/novelas-y-cuadros-de-la-vida-suramericana--0/html/ff243e56-82b1-11df-acc7-002185ce6064_2.html#I\_0\_

Alzate, Carolina & Isabel Corpas de Posada. Biblioteca Digital de Acosta de Samper. Universidad de los Andes & Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia. Est. 2019. https://soledadacosta.uniandes.edu.co/

Alzare, Carolina. Soledad Acosta de Samper y el discurso letrado de género, 1853-1881. Bogotá: Iberoamericana, 2015.

Alzate, Carolina & Montserrat Ordóñez, et al. Soledad Acosta de Samper. Escritura, género y nación en el siglo XIX. Madrid: Editorial Iberoamericana Vervuert, 2005.

Petit, Julien, Juan Pablo Fajardo González, equipo TRansHistor(ia), Patricia Córdoba Ibagos, Ignacio Martínez Villalba, Lucas Ospina Villalba, José Andrés Díaz Ruíz, & Natalia Gutiérrez Montes. Tipo lito calavera: historias del diseño gráfico en Colombia en el siglo XX. Bogotá: Banco de la República, 2022.

Explore more: https://www.are.na/cita-press/dolores-scenes-from-a-woman-s-life

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GLOSSARY

In order of appearance.

Games & Amusements:

• The vacaloca (literally, “crazy cow”) was a popular 19th-century firework display in Colombia: a cow-shaped frame covered in fireworks, carried or chased through the crowd. Children played with buscaniguas, small chasing firecrackers that darted unpredictably across the ground.
• Pasa diez was likely a card or dice game where players “pass ten” or aim for a total of ten — something akin to blackjack or “twenty-one,” but with local variations.
• In cachimona, players drew lines—one per participant—and hid a small ball at the end of one; whoever chose the line with the ball won.
• In bis-bis, bets were placed on a board divided into numbered squares; a winning number was drawn by chance, and the banker paid the corresponding multiplier.
• Bambuco: Dance with a rural atmosphere, typical of the Colombian Andean region, in which couples perform movements and figures that imitate the conquest of women by men.
• Tresillo: Card game, usually played by three people.

Food:

• Ajiaco is now a thick potato soup from the Cundiboyacense highlands, though the term once referred to other stews. 
• Lechona is a stuffed roasted pig from Tolima.
• Guarruz is a traditional fried or toasted snack made from corn and rice.
• Chimbos are sweet egg-based confections, often poached in syrup; a traditional dessert.
• Cocadas are chewy coconut sweets.
• Panderos are ring-shaped cookies or pastries made with cassava or corn flour, crunchy and sweet.
• Arepas are cornmeal cakes or patties, grilled or fried.

Drinks:

• Chicha is fermented from fruits.
• Guarapo is fermente from sugarcane juice.
• Mistela is a mixture of aguardiente, water, sugar, and aromatic spices.
• In Colombia, horchatas are not always the same as the Mexican type; they can be grain- or nut-based drinks.

Percussion instruments:

• Alfandoques are wooden or bamboo tubes filled with seeds or stones and shaken to produce sound.
• Carrascas are hollowed palm segments with carved grooves, scraped with a stick or bone to create rhythm.
• Chirimia: Wooden wind instrument similar to a clarinet, about seventy centimeters long, with ten holes and a cane reed mouthpiece.

Clothing

• Fula: thin cotton fabric, dyed indigo.
• Ruana: A type of poncho.

People

• A cachaco was a young man in 19th-century Bogotá. Elegant and gentlemanly, he was different from the period’s “dandy” because he was not particularly thought of as overly concerned with his appearance.
• Ñapangas or cintureras: Mestiza or mulatta women who worked as peasants or domestic servants. According to Soledad Acosta de Samper in Un chistoso de aldea (1905), cinturera referred in the lowlands to women who wore skirts without bodices (Alzate, Nuevo diccionario de americanismos).

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Sara Abadía Alvarado is a Colombian writer and educator. She studied Literature at Universidad de los Andes, where she first encountered the work of Soledad Acosta de Samper, an author with whom she continues to hold an ongoing dialogue. Her work has appeared in 070, NACLA, and with Laguna Press. In 2023, she was selected for Anthology III of the New York Book Fair for her short story “Anamorfosis.” En medio de una noche eterna is her debut novel, written during her Master’s program in Creative Writing in Spanish at NYU, under the supervision and guidance of Rita Indiana, Amelia Bande, and Silvina López Medín. She currently lives in Boston, where she teaches theater to young people in East Boston. She writes with deliberate ambition and a sustained belief in literature’s power to outlast time.

Mariana Sanín A. is an illustrator and designer from Colombia. She also likes writing poems, short stories and haikus for children (and grownups).